My fingers
begin to spider,
slowly,
calmly up
the keyboard.
I imagine
you standing
over my shoulder,
white locks
brushing my ear.
Handel,
I say,
before I play
your
Passacaglia,
I’m trying
to recall
my composer
father’s version,
he improvised
on violin,
then piano.
I wanted,
for the court,
to evoke
a dance,
spirited,
with light
and grace,
you say,
when I explain
my father sought
to echo
lamentive times
of WWII.
Instead of showing
dismay,
as you might,
with someone
who recast
the long cherished
original,
you encourage me
to play what
in dad’s heart sang.
My fingers
step gently,
over notes
you recognize
as your own.
At which point,
I march
somber phrases,
distinctly elegiac,
higher up
the keyboard.
Almost
before I realize it,
your right hand,
with feather touch,
covers mine.
I want to feel
what you feel,
you whisper.
And I know
no other way
to feel
we’re as one.
And so our two hands,
bound by the hand
of my father,
up and down
the piano waltz,
unfurling
a melody
of ages,
centuries apart,
beloved.
I am,
for a few moments
transcendent,
as though son,
I say,
to both of you,
born of music,
now part
of the digital
empyrean,
without fade,
or ending.
I turn my gaze
back upward
to yours,
feel in turn,
on my hand,
a squeeze,
reminding
of my father’s,
for every note
I play,
breathing
within me
yet.
Inspired by Passacaglia (Sad Version) | Cinematic Piano Cover
