Yesterday
started like a model spring. A warm wind
against a cloudy sky, but the rain never came.
I pulled myself out of bed at the alarm that Mark had set for me before
leaving. He always does this, to make
sure I don’t oversleep without him there to shake me off my pillow. He is easier to refuse than relentless noise.
My
morning was entertaining three small people, ages four, two and
just-about-to-figure-out-this-walking-business.
They wanted to be outside, and if I was honest I did too, so we all
went. They needed nothing more than open
space in which to dash madly about (and a few muddy patches to tramp through,
disregarding every warning to avoid said patches). We had a glorious morning, even those of us
who attempted frequently to stuff grass and dead leaves into our mouths.
My
afternoon was driving windows-down through what my artist-uncle would call a
visual cliché: green grass, blue skies and sun coursing through painted-on
clouds. On my way out of town, I passed
a house with a man sitting on the roof.
We just stared at each other. I
forgot to do the friendly thing and wave because I was busy being jealous.
My
piano students were worth the drive.
They were talkative, determined, eager and tentative, respectively; I
explained arpeggiated chords to one and had to help another to push down the
keys. Teaching was profoundly different
from one to the next, but there were always three of us: teacher, student and
instrument. There is so much to be
learned by means of this wooden box and its long row of white and black – I teach
them, and they teach me. Meanwhile, the
sun outside taught new buds to open.
Today
was an equal and opposite reaction. It
was full of tests and homework and occasional rain. And like one day sharply outlined against
another, the grass seemed greener than ever under a thick grey sky.
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