I love having a piano. I love the noise, whether it’s a beginner giving it a try, someone making up a song, or someone who has been playing forever. The thing is, though, I’ve been having a hard time loving our actual piano. When we got it, I kind of imagined it tucked away somewhere, but it has found its home in our dining room. The kids both love it there, because it’s in the center of everything.

Recently I was trying to come up with some way to change the piano to make it more appealing to me. I suggested to the kids that maybe we should paint it. They responded as people who spent their formative years running around antique stores for fun would: they were horrified at the thought.


Over the past few days I’ve spent some time with our piano. I polished every inch of it. I scrubbed its keys. I replaced the torn fabric on the stool. As I worked I looked past its dings and dents and stains and thought about hands building, tuning, playing, polishing. And I think I found a way to love our piano.

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