The Father's Music

It was a rainy evening when I first heard the music.

The kind of rain that seemed to whisper

secrets to the earth, soft and steady, like

a lullaby. It tapped against the window,

its rhythm almost as comforting as the

sound of the old piano in the corner of

the living room. I hadn’t noticed the music

before, but that night, it filled the house.

My father, who had been absent for most

of my childhood, was sitting at the piano,

his fingers moving gracefully over the keys.

The sound was pure, warm, and rich,

weaving its way through the cracks of the

house as if it had always belonged there.

I stood at the door, watching him, frozen in place.

I had never heard him play before.

“Dad?” I called out, hesitant.

He paused, his hands hovering above the keys,

and then turned to look at me.

His face, lined with age and the weight of years,

softened as he saw me standing there,

uncertain and intrigued.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said with a faint smile.

I shook my head, unsure of what to say.

It wasn’t that I had never heard him play;

it was that I had never seen him play in the house.

As far back as I could remember,

Dad had always been distant,

buried in work or locked away in his study.

Music had never been part of our family’s routine, certainly not like this.

“Why didn’t you ever play for me before?”

I asked, the question escaping before I could stop it.

He seemed to consider

the question for a moment before speaking,

his voice low and distant.

“I didn’t think you’d understand,”

he said, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

The idea of not understanding

my father’s music seemed absurd.

Music was universal.

I loved music. How could it not matter?

“You could’ve taught me,”

I said, a little more boldly this time.

“I want to learn.”

He smiled, though it was a sad smile,

as though the weight of something unspoken hung between us.

“I don’t know if I can teach you,

” he said. “I’m not sure I know how to teach anyone,

least of all you.”

I stared at him, confused.

I had always seen my father as a man

who had everything figured out.

He was calm, steady, always in control.

He had never seemed like someone

who didn’t know how to do something.

“I don’t get it,” I said quietly,

sitting on the armrest of the worn-out sofa.

“What do you mean?”

He looked down at the piano,

as if the keys held some kind of secret.

He hesitated before speaking again.

“When I was young,” he began,

“I used to play every day. It was my escape.

My mother was always sick, and my father...

well, he wasn’t exactly the caring type.

I turned to music because it was

the only thing that made sense.

The only thing that didn’t disappoint me.”

I listened intently, my gaze never leaving his face.

I could hear the raw emotion in his voice,

something I hadn’t expected from

the man who had always

been a pillar of strength in my life.

“But then life got in the way,” he continued,

his fingers once again brushing across

the piano keys, the melody flowing like water.

“I got married, had kids,

and I had to put it all aside.

The music became just another memory.

But it never really left me.

It was always there, buried deep down.”

I wanted to say something, to tell him

that I understood, that I had always

wanted to know him better,

but the words caught in my throat.

Instead, I just listened,

allowing the music to fill the space between us.

He played on, the melody shifting and changing,

sometimes melancholic, sometimes joyful,

as if the music was telling a story of its own.

I had never heard anything so beautiful,

so haunting. It was as if each note was a piece of him,

a part of his soul that he had kept hidden for years.

Eventually, the rain outside grew heavier

the wind howling against the windows,

but the music remained steady, unyielding.

It was the only constant in a world that

seemed to be constantly changing.