One of my fondest childhood memories is listening to my mother play piano on summer nights against the backdrop of crickets chirping outside. I sat on the couch listening to her nimble fingers inject the keys with quiet but self-assured expression. Often chaos unraveled around us, one brother in particular shelling insults and roaring in slight. As if to respond in dignified protest, my mother stilled herself in moored breathing and played Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-sharp minor, a so-called ‘mood piece of the evening,’ as I shut my eyes to absorb the full body of the melody, her pinky and ring fingers hitting the high-pitched trills before the gushing torrent abated into a calm stream over broken chords. Today when I listen to it I am transported back to these moments with watery eyes as swirling mayhem distilled into creative materialization of the precarious human condition.
Making a Home
Making a Home
Making a Home
One of my fondest childhood memories is listening to my mother play piano on summer nights against the backdrop of crickets chirping outside. I sat on the couch listening to her nimble fingers inject the keys with quiet but self-assured expression. Often chaos unraveled around us, one brother in particular shelling insults and roaring in slight. As if to respond in dignified protest, my mother stilled herself in moored breathing and played Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-sharp minor, a so-called ‘mood piece of the evening,’ as I shut my eyes to absorb the full body of the melody, her pinky and ring fingers hitting the high-pitched trills before the gushing torrent abated into a calm stream over broken chords. Today when I listen to it I am transported back to these moments with watery eyes as swirling mayhem distilled into creative materialization of the precarious human condition.