A celestial event, visible this night,
and I remember going sometimes to the park
together peering at the sky to see, to try,
You are the reason we went to look.
not long ago a lifetime ago
you said about the piano, the way I play,
I didn’t know, how could I know?
I could be this for someone,
That such a thing is possible.
The tears blur my vision,
it was not enough time I cry out
But in between I see,
before I forget again, and yet again,
and then remember,
It is vast and expansive, my time with you.
If I sit down to write, which is hard to get myself to do, sometimes I can work it enough to distill an idea or a feeling or some memories into a few words from which I can derive meaning. Later on it helps me to read it. I think there is potential, in any form of art, to discover shades of meaning that might not be immediately apparent, or emotional content that otherwise would be too hard to directly look at. It has surprised me that crafting words has the capacity to affect me this way, because all my life playing piano has been the art form that has enabled me to find exquisite beauty even (and especially) in the saddest parts of the pieces I play.