I would play it now.
But I don’t.
Not because I don’t love music, the sound of it, the melody, the thought-provoking, beauteous sound that it makes.
No, none of those.
I don’t because I can’t play a note.
I haven’t even mastered Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, which most kindergartners can play on their I-Pads.
It is pathetic, in a profoundly sad kind of way, that I depend of others to give me my music fix.
Ok, let’s be specific.
My piano fix.
I love many kinds of music, but there is something about the piano that takes me to that other place.
I love hands, and that may be part of the obsession.
Hands can tell so much about a person.
Being a photographer, I spend a good deal of time photographing hands as each one has a story to tell.
Some are gnarled and twisted with arthritis and yet still maintain the ability to button a jacket.
Some are destined to labor and become calloused and sore as they work, year after year after year.
Some are chosen to be used to create music, others, prose.
Some are used to touch the afflicted, without fear of contamination, and to comfort the comfortless.
Some are of no use at all, hanging silently and without guilt or guile at what they, were they so inclined, could accomplish.
Some are at the ready, pressing the shutter button to capture images that will take the present well into the future in images.
Some are folded, reverently, in prayer as they pray and give thanks for all manner of things.
Hands, more than any other feature, have a story to tell but, as hands, they are too humble to say so.
Look. See. Experience.
And know that simply by looking at someone’s hands, you have had a small glimpse into their soul.