When I was eight, mum brought me to a keyboard teacher in the neighborhood. I remembered the breezy nights walking over to class, hand in hand with her.

After a year of learning, the teacher thought I should have a keyboard at home to practice. I didn’t have one. I remembered mum and dad took me to the instrument store to get a keyboard. They asked my teacher to come with us since he knew more about keyboard. He helped us pick out one. Mum asked me to test the keyboard over and over. She asked me multiple times “Are you sure you like this one? Try it. Make really sure you like this one.” She counted cash, one by one making sure she had enough to pay for the keyboard.

I got decently ok with playing the keyboard. Then life got in the way. We moved multiple times. I had exams. My parents got too busy to take me to keyboard classes. I abandoned the musical hobby.

Years later, we moved in with my aunt and uncle’s family, forming a big family unit living together under one proof. They owned a piano. Not just a keyboard, but an actual piano. The keys were shiny and heavy. When I pressed on them, I could feel the weight of the bars in the back pounding down to make music. It was magical.

Then, I could rode my own bicycle to places. My parents didn’t have to take me places anymore. Mum wanted me to take piano classes again. She told me to go learn play for fun. Basically, it was musical illiteracy eradication. She didn’t expect me to play for concerts, or master the classicals. It was just for fun.

I always appreciate her for that. I’m nowhere near being musically talented or especially good at piano. But I know how to play piano. And that’s the ability to create music. It’s turning nothing to something. That’s beautiful.

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