I just said goodbye to an old friend, knowing full well our paths are unlikely to cross again. We met 34 years ago, and we remained quite close until our recent parting. And though this friend is not a living being, I’m keenly aware of the debt of gratitude I owe it.

This friend is my piano.

I didn’t think I’d be so sentimental about bidding it farewell, but as our time together grew short, I found myself recalling the highlights of our togetherness. Just as I would hope to do with any dear friend of the human variety, I wanted to honor the precious gifts of the special times we shared.  As I soon realized, we have a multitude of wonderful memories, enough to fill a book.  

If we were to write that book, the introduction would recount how we met. It would relate my excitement over piano shopping when I was expecting our second child. It would describe all our expeditions to music stores in search of the one that felt perfect.

I remember the joy when it was delivered to our home. I’d grown up playing the piano and was happy to be able to play once again. Even before it arrived, I had so many hopes, dreams, and expectations centered around it. 

It might have seemed a tall order, but I was counting on that piano to instill a love of music in our own children.

The book’s first chapter would focus on our early years together when our boys were still quite young. The four of us would often gather round it. I would play, and we would all sing together. Singing at Christmas always seemed extra special. “The Twelve Days of Christmas” became a favorite tradition, with each of us choosing three of the “days” to sing solo.

The next chapter would chronicle the years of our sons’ piano lessons. Not long after the older one started learning to play, he had all the confidence he needed to begin teaching it himself. For the short time it lasted, his dad was his own private pupil. The two of them spent evening time seated together on the bench working on the basics.

A few years later, our younger son started his lessons as well. The piano supported their progress through all the practicing for lessons and the preparations for recitals.

As often happens, the piano’s novelty gradually wore off, and the kids lost interest. The piano received less attention as practicing became more of a chore. Each boy took lessons for three years but then gave it up for other interests.

That could have been the end of our story together, but it wasn’t. No, to me, the subject of the third chapter would be quite thrilling because that’s when I decided to take lessons myself.  

I’d had nine years of lessons as a child, but like many youngsters, I took it for granted at the time. Growing up, I’d felt little appreciation for what I was being offered.  

When I returned as an adult student, I approached it with a totally different mindset, one of reverence and gratitude. Initially, my goal was to knock a little rust off my skills, but it quickly became much more. I practiced tirelessly, sometimes pushing the limits my family could handle. 

Although I was a working parent and busy most evenings with family, I still managed to lose myself in practicing for whatever minutes or hours were available.

The piano was my ticket to relaxation, my therapy at the end of a busy day.  Those may well have been the piano’s healthiest years because those were the years it was exercised most often. 

As an adult, I took lessons for over five years. Had my teacher not quit teaching, I would probably still be taking lessons today.  

Once again it seemed our story might have ended at that point, but once again a new chapter was waiting to be written. The story of our experiences together would continue on with a fourth chapter. 

Teaching piano was not something I’d considered doing, but piano teachers in our community were few. Shortly after my own lessons ended, I began to take on piano students of my own. My piano and I welcomed this new phase and the opportunities it provided for growth in new directions. Children and adults came to my home hoping to develop their musical skills with the help of my piano. 

I expected to witness each student’s musical development, and it was really gratifying to watch it unfold. However, I wasn’t prepared for the depth of emotion accompanying these lessons. I was only spending a half hour a week with each student, but week after week our relationships deepened.

Each student who sat on that piano bench came with unique personalities and gifts, and our one-on-one sessions offered me the privilege of observing their growth up close. 

I feel both humbled and honored to have had those one-on-one moments to observe and to  encourage them on their journey—with life as well as with piano.

Chapter five—the later years. A couple years after I retired from my regular teaching career, I decided to retire from teaching piano as well. At that point, the piano went into retirement, too, for the most part. It was rarely used, especially since I’d been playing music with my husband and was usually playing on an electric keyboard. 

And then recently, for a variety of reasons, I decided to let it go. 

I decided to release my attachment to it and to find it a new home. I even managed to find what I believe is the most exciting new life it could have. I gave it to a former piano student who loves music and has three young children who may someday want to learn to play themselves.

On our last night together with the piano, my husband asked me to play for him. What followed was a half hour private concert of some of my favorite pieces. When it was over, I sat in stillness, trying to absorb the magnitude of all the gifts this instrument had provided. 

My life has been richer because of this piano. I credit music and the piano for strengthening the closeness we developed as a family, our immediate family and our extended family, too. The instrument helped me hone my skills, gain confidence, and find and fulfill new purpose.  

But the gift I’m most grateful for is the lifelong connections with others made possible because of this instrument—the people I’ve met through my own playing and all the students and their families I’ve been blessed to know.

The story of my piano and me is preserved forever in my soul. I’ll always treasure those 88 keys for providing a way to create special bonds with others. Over and over, it helped nurture love and joy. 

As I write these words, it occurs to me that it contributed these things just by its being. It also occurs to me that that’s exactly what I myself long to do—offering my being to nurture love and joy.

And now the instrument that gave me such delight is off on a new adventure. Comfortably settled with a young family, it’s just waiting to begin a new tale of excitement.