"Sometime, Play A Little Piano For Me"

That's what my father said to me at dinner tonight. Saying that triggered all sorts of bad memories.

Playing the piano was the first big fight I had with him where I actually stood up to him. My parents and I had me and my sister learn when we were young; for some reason my brother was spared. I liked the piano at first, then played to make my father happy, then was unhappy. I played through high school, I believe.

To this day, what pisses me off most about my playing years is that we had a recital every spring but he wouldn't go. But, from time to time he would get me out of bed and have him play for him. The memory conjures up images of me, the court musician, trying to delight My Lord. I fucking hated that. Still do. What, you're gonna make me feel small because you're my dad and you can tell me what to do? Fuck you. Fuck you to hell.

I don't know if he didn't like what I was playing or if I just refused to play altogether, although one may have morphed into the other. But pretty soon we were having an all-out war over him making me go to piano class well past the point of me liking it. College was the only reason he ever let it go. But dammit, he brought it back up again. For the first time in at least a decade.

The piano's still there. We use it now to put stuff on -- clock, lamp, feather duster, chips. It hasn't been played in years and it may be out of tune. But now that I'm more mature, I think about how unused the piano is. And maybe, just maybe, I should take it back up. Because now I see the virtue in knowing how to play, at least a little. But then the bad memories of how this damn instrument was forced upon me by my father -- as a way of controlling me and you can't make me believe otherwise -- well up inside me, and that wistful notion fades back under my skin.

Wish all you want, Father. I won't play piano for you. Not after how you used it to abuse me. OK, maybe I'll play on your deathbed. Would you care for "Chopsticks?"