Piano lessons

He was old then.  Eighty-six.  And a perfectionist.

He had a poster of Uncle Sam.  I want YOU to practice EVERY DAY.

I’d just finished kindergarten.

I’d been begging my mom for piano lessons since I was three.

After the first lesson I wanted to quit.  She wouldn’t let me.

It ended eleven years later.

He had me play the same piece.  Over and over.  The whole hour.

He’d had a stroke.

I was free.

He died two months later.

In between I got to be a decent pianist.

I had a good ear.

Never developed the ability to sight-read, though.

I forgot most of what I learned.

I’ve barely played in the last twenty years.

I should pick it up again.