Sammy’s
Silence
By
Grandma
Baadsgaard
Happy
10th birthday Sammy.
Here is a story I wrote just for you.
I
love you so very much.
Sammy liked his family’s new piano. His
younger brothers and sister did not play rowdy or make too much noise in the
piano room so it was quiet in there – quiet and warm. Sunshine streaming
through the window from the afternoon sun made light and shadow designs on the
rug in this room. Whenever Sammy was feeling sad or happy, he walked into the
piano room. Then he slid under the keyboard and quietly sat on the bench.
Later, he would practice the songs his piano teacher assigned; but for now,
this was his sad or happy time.
Sammy placed his fingers on the keys
and closed his eyes. He listened quietly to the silence all around him. Then he
played one note with his right hand and then another. Sammy listened carefully
to the silence between the notes and sighed.
Next he placed his left hand on the
keyboard. Then he played one note with his left hand and then another. Finally,
Sammy played with both of his hands together, stopping and starting over and
over again - sometimes using quick notes and other times using slow notes. If
he was sad, a melancholy song flowed from Sam’s fingers. If he was happy, a
quick lively song flowed from his fingers.
Sammy breathed deeply as he played. The
music moved through his body like the rising ocean on the shoreline. There was
a certain cadence to the sounds of the incoming tide. Sometimes an unexpected
flurry of notes, like a huge wave, would crash on the keyboard and startle him
with surprise. Sammy giggled and he smiled.
Now he was ready to play the songs his
piano teacher assigned. Sammy thought about these songs in a different way. He knew
that the person who created these songs often felt sad or happy just like him.
As he played these songs, he tried to imagine what the composer was feeling
when they composed the song. Sometimes he studied about the lives of composers
so he could guess better. Sometimes unsettled or invigorating feelings came to
Sammy when he played other composer’s songs. Yet, when he played their music,
he felt they understood each other.
When Sammy was through playing the
piano, he slid from the bench and turned around. That is when he often bowed to
an invisible audience. Sometimes he clapped for himself and for all the
composers who knew the secrets of happy and sad notes . . . and the elegant sound
of silence. Often Sammy heard uproarious and grateful applause. That is when Sam
played his most exquisite encore.
When Sammy went outside, the music
did not stop. He heard melodies and rhythm everywhere . . . in the song of a lonely bird sitting on the
bare limb of a willow tree . . . in the sudden
gusts of wind whipping around the corners of his house just outside his bedroom
window . . . and in the tapping of his mother’s knife on the cutting board
preparing supper.
Oh, and then there were the enchanted
times when Sammy climbed a hill where he could see so far and wide. He raised his
arm and magic baton to usher into being the fleeting song of childhood - where
only those who still have delight and whimsy deep inside can hear the intangible
opus and tenuous offerings of life.
