Food For Thought

His fingers flitted over the keys so fast that I could barely keep up with them, striking chords so beautiful and melodious that they made my heart ache.

“How did he get so good?”

My sister, the keeper of all knowledge, smiled the small smile that meant that whatever piece of knowledge that she was about to dredge up was known to only a select few that were discerning enough to care.

“Do you remember when we had that big storm about five years ago?”

“Yea,” I answered. It was that storm, the one that the weathermen and women always hoped wouldn’t be outdone by whatever nasty-looking red swirls were coming our way. “It knocked our power out for a week.”

“Well, apparently, Mr. Kole took to playing around with his daughter’s piano to pass the time while they fixed everything,” she said, “And when they came around to make sure that his power was working properly, he said that it didn’t matter because he wouldn’t be needing anything but the lights anymore.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s crazy, though.”

There was no way, in this day and age, that anyone could go without electricity for five years.

Could they?

“You call it crazy,” my sister said with a shrug, “But I’m sure that he prefers to think of himself as dedicated.”

I closed my eyes as the final notes of the piece resonated through the auditorium. My sister stood, the rest of the auditorium stood, and I stayed seated. Mr. Kole’s music was still reverberating through my skin, sinking into my bones. The best, most genuine praise that I could give him now was my quiet reverence.

And maybe, just maybe, I could borrow a little bit of his dedication.


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