While most parents get empty nest syndrome, mine were too excited about my departure. They celebrated my empty room with constant house parties, a month long vacation touring China and Japan and what seems to be an epic redecoration project. But worst of all, they’ve started to sell my stuff.
Okay, they haven’t begun an auction of my belongings, but this past weekend my mother gave me a “courtesy call” to tell me that she was going to sell my piano. I understand that technically it isn’t my piano. I did not pay for it, although in my defense, I was only five at the time. However, no one in my family has touched those ivory keys except for me, which gives me some sense of entitlement and ownership.
Packing up my belongings for college four weeks go felt like an acute form of Chinese water torture. Transportation and shipping from Texas meant I was under specific instructions from my parents to only bring “bare essentials.” Of course, our definitions of essentials differed greatly, and my piano became the Great Debate. Practically, there was no way I could bring my upright piano with me; we discussed selling the piano and using that money on a nice (read: expensive), weighted keyboard, while acknowledging that it would never feel the same. Then the dilemma became how to ship a keyboard or check it as luggage, and where would it go in my room. Would I have space to put it on a stand, would it fit on my desk or, the most likely scenario, would it sit under my bed for an entire year?
At home, I would easily spend hours messing around with melodies, but it wasn’t going to be a big part of my college life, if any. There would be no lessons or competitions. I had decided I wasn’t cut out to be a music major, and I wasn’t going to join an orchestra, band or chamber music ensemble. So after much debate internal debate, I decided to leave my music at home.
After only a month, I’ve already started to feel the consequences of piano withdrawal. My wrists are tighter, and I pop my knuckles constantly to try and release the antsy-ness in my hands. On the lone occasion that I ventured into a practice room, the arpeggios that used to be effortless gave me hand cramps, and the runs I had memorized are full of missteps and wrong notes. While before, I felt like I had earned the right to call myself a pianist, I have now been downgraded to someone who infrequently makes attempts at music.
So my parents were right, yet again, and that leaves me little ground to argue for ownership of the piano. But when my mother called me to let me know that she was going to sell it, I felt a little betrayed. But I came to realize that my piano would be better off. Its new owner would hopefully play it a couple times a week, while the best I could offer was a couple times every five or six months. In between it would be ignored aside from the occasional dusting.
My regret is that I never got to say goodbye, although I am in the process of trying to secure visitation rights. On the other hand, my lesson has been learned, and this Thanksgiving, I plan to search the house for anything that is important to me, box it up, and put it in storage.
