"Where are we going?"

I was kidnapped away from my after school cartoons by my mom one day after kindergarten. We passed the turn in for our house and kept driving. We turned onto a dirt road and when I looked out the window, I saw fenced goats, sheep, ostriches, and all sorts of farm animals. My mom stopped in front of an old one story house, with a backyard orchard, and when I got out of the car, I heard the tinkling of piano keys reciting a simple but pretty melody.

My mom knocked softly and we walked in. I immediately saw 2 grand pianos; one that was old and brown, and another that was a gorgeous jet black and stretched on to the back corner of the room. The student sat at the brown one, and an old lady with a hunchback about the age of 80 sat at the concert one. When the student's lesson was over, the old lady pulled over a step stool, and gestured to me. I sat on the piano bench with my feet resting on the stool, and I was her piano student for 8 years following.

Mrs. Meltzer was very very old and ripped farts that smelled like sewage. But her sight reads were performance ready. The appearance of her fragile body did not reflect the strength that remained in her hands and fingers. In the near decade that she was my teacher, I collected certificates, ribbons, and trophies from various guilds and competitions. People started remembering my name when it would show up on rosters and programs.

Our family was very close to the Meltzers. She would give us pomagranates from her trees when they were of season. It was the first time I ever ate pomagranate. We got to know her neighbor, who would sell us fresh eggs from their farm every week. We were with Mrs. Meltzer when her husband died. She tried to teach me how to knit. I visited her at the hospital when she had her first collapse.

But I hated piano because I was forced into it and never had a choice otherwise. I always fell behind on theory work. I hated having to practice everyday. I'd warm up with the scales, chromatics, arpeggios, chords and triads. And then played the Bach inventions, the Suzuki, and performance pieces. I hated Bach. He was Baroque and needed fixing. But even after all that, only 25 minutes would've gone by, and on the 26th minute, my mom would yell at me to remind me that she had a clock and wooden spoon in front of her.

We sent Mrs. Meltzer christmas cards every year after we moved away, and and always got one back in the same handwriting that usually gave me my weekly practice assignments. I was able to be much less disciplined because of our moves, and never found a piano teacher quite like her again. In high school, I finally had the guts and persistance to tell my mom how much I hated piano, and that I'm too old for her to drag me into the car anymore anyway. And so, my piano "talents" died away since then, and our several thousand dollar upright just collects dust, but I didn't care.

My freshman year of college, my mom got a christmas card back from one of Mrs. Meltzer's sons instead. I found out that she had died in February 2007 at the age of 93, after she had arranged her Piano Scholarship Fund. On days that I didn't cry at the piano bench, I forgot that she was my piano teacher and thought of her like an old aunt.