It may sound peculiar to some, the idea of falling in love with one’s instrument.

But there are others, those who have fallen themselves, who understand completely.

There’s just something about the piano that I find enticing. Always has been, now that I think about it. Perhaps it’s the versatility of the instrument, switching easily between blues and Bach, from symphony orchestra to jazz orchestra.

Or maybe it’s because of its range of sound. It can sound moody, stormy, and bassy one minute, then flighty or gentle in the upper register the next.

But there’s something else, too. Something I can’t place, something without a name. The only way I can think is that there’s something both personal and universal about the ivory and the ebony. I don’t know, you can try all day to think of some way to articulate it, but words simply don’t exist to describe that cincher quality about the piano.

Ah well. The reasoning doesn’t matter, really.

Can I help it if, in the words of Irving Berlin, “I love a piano”?

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Author guidance for This work

A thing I started on ficly (http://ficly.com/stories/1032 ), which is where I'll probably be mostly adding to it, but I wanted to share it here as well. Apparently, it's possible for lil' ol' impish me, the more-often-than-not heckler of most things sappy, can write something this sentimental.

Miracles do happen, people. Just don't count on them happening all that often.

Oh, one more thing: this is my first real sentimental piece. Please, please be nice to me in your comments! Otherwise you may never get another sensitive word out of me again.

updated Jun 7 '09 by g2LaPianistaIrlandesa