His mother was on a 12-hour shift. She worked nights this week. The apartment was quiet when he got home, the way it was quiet most afternoons. Not empty, exactly, because his grandmother's things were still on the shelves, even though she'd been gone 2 years, because the kitchen still smelled like the candles his mother burned, because the walls held sound somehow, but solitary. He dropped his bag on the kitchen table and stood in the hallway outside his bedroom for a moment.
The door was open. His room was small, but organized in the specific way of a person who used every inch intentionally. Books stacked by height on the shelf, clothes folded, a poster on the wall of John Coltrane, half his face in shadow, saxophone in hand, that he'd found at a thrift store, and that his mother had helped him frame with cardboard and tape when they couldn't afford a real frame. And against the far wall, under the window, the keyboard. It was an old Casio, ivory-colored once, but now the shade of old teeth.
Hit with keys that had been repaired so many times they wore it plainly. Tape over two cracked keys on the upper register, handwritten labels on three of the lower ones that had lost their markings, small pieces of white electrical tape with letters drawn in permanent marker. A sustain pedal connected by a cord that had been resoldered at the jack. The whole thing sat on a metal stand from a garage sale, adjusted with a folded piece of cardboard under one leg to keep it level. It was the most important object Elijah owned.
He sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at it. Not playing it, just looking. His phone buzzed. His mother. How was school?
He typed back, "Fine. Tired." A lie. Not a complicated one, just the kind that kept the night from getting harder than it needed to be. She would be on her feet for another 6 hours. She didn't need this tonight.
He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a memory that lived in his hands more than in his head. The feel of larger hands over his, patient and deliberate, pressing down on keys with a weight that was never force, but always in tension. A voice saying, "Listen before you play, Eli. The music already exists.
Your job is just to find it." The smell of coffee and cedar. A window with old curtains that moved in a way that meant the screen had a tear in it. He didn't let himself go all the way into the memory. He never did. It was like a room he could stand at the doorway of, but not walk into without the grief catching up to him.
He sat up after a while. He walked to the keyboard. He sat down on the stool. He pressed a single key, middle C, held it until it faded. He looked at his hands.