Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul.
-W. Somerset Maugham
Our beautiful piano has breathed her last. My heart is heavy.
The soul of the maker is in the wood. Perhaps an immigrant from another country? A man who learned his craft from generations before him? It was built in 1895. I can almost see the craftsman at work, carving the wood, the details, placing the keys, the strings. I wonder what he thought of as he worked? The Old Country? Did he worry about his children? Did he pray? Did he hum to himself to pass the time? His hands, stained and sturdy, deftly creating a masterpiece that would be treasured for over a century.
When the instrument was complete did he run his hand across the keyboard?
I yearn to reach across the divide and shake that hand, to thank him for giving his soul so perfectly.
What was the first melody that spilled forth from the soul of the piano's first owner, infused with the soul of the instrument, created by the soul of the maker, joined with the soul of the composer?