Music in My Heart: My Journey with Melody

Sometimes, one song can change everything. One Saturday afternoon, I’m sitting at the piano playing my recital piece again. The tick, tick, tick of the metronome keeps my fingers moving, but my mind wanders. One more recital, then I’m switching to guitar. Our fifth grade class starts guitar lessons at school next year, and Anika, my best friend, and I can jam together. Goodbye, classical music!

The metronome grows louder, and then I realize it’s actually my piano teacher clapping to get my attention. Ms. Stricker is frowning. Anika and I don’t call her “Ms. Strict” for nothing. I ask if I made a mistake, but she says I played the notes perfectly. She says there’s just no passion in it, sounding just like Dad, who’s always telling me to find my passion.

Dad’s a politician, passionate about helping people and making a difference in our community. I’m not sure piano is my passion. Sometimes the music flows straight from my eyes to my fingertips, skipping my brain entirely, so I can think about other things while I play. Maybe it’s skipping my heart too.

I apologize, trying not to stare at the mole above her eyebrow. Ms. Stricker sighs and says it’s time for a different song. A different song? The recital is only two weeks away. While she rummages in her cabinet, I hum my new favorite song, “Lemonade Days,” wishing I could play it instead, though I can’t hit the high notes the way Anika can. Instead, Ms. Stricker hands me an old, stained piece of music with dog-eared corners: “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”

As I sight-read, the song takes shape, and it sounds like a gospel song Grammy and I used to sing at church before she died a few months ago. A pang of sadness hits me, and I can almost hear her singing the first line, Lift every voice, and sing, till earth and heaven ring. By the second verse, other voices seem to join mine in my head, though nobody else is in the room. I can’t hear the metronome anymore, and I don’t notice when Ms. Stricker steps out to answer a ringing phone. I keep playing as if I can’t stop, the imaginary choir swelling around me. On the final note, a breeze stirs the sheet music and the room darkens. All I see are the clock’s blue numbers, blinking 1:26, before everything fades away.

I rub my eyes. The sheet music is still there, but everything else has changed. A different clock, and a lighter-colored piano, dusty and worn, nothing like Ms. Stricker’s mahogany one. A bulletin board above the piano holds a poster reading “Walk to Freedom with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.” Squinting at the fine print, I read: Detroit, Michigan. Sunday, June 23, 1963.

A voice behind me makes me whirl around. A girl about my age stands in the doorway, wearing a sleeveless green and blue checked dress that pops against her golden brown skin, the kind of dress Grammy wears in an old photo of herself as a teenager. The girl says that was amazing. I ask if she means the Walk to Freedom, and she laughs, saying she meant my piano playing, though the march last summer, which she marched in herself, was amazing too.

Last summer? The poster says the Walk to Freedom happened in 1963, more than fifty years ago. I notice the room now, folding tables and chairs like a meeting hall, an old typewriter, a black telephone with a long, twisted cord, everything old-fashioned. Is this the craziest daydream ever, or did I just play my way back in time?

The girl introduces herself as Melody, and says she loves the song I just played. Her grandma, upstairs with the rest of the congregation, loves it too. She asks if I’ll play it again if she goes to get her. I nod, and she spins and clatters up the stairs.

I can’t remember the last time anyone seemed this happy to hear me play, certainly not Ms. Strict at my lesson. There’s something special about this song, though. My fingers stroke the keys again, softly, and after the first verse I barely need to read the music. I sail through it, hearing voices rise up around me.

I close my eyes and let the music fill me up. As the last notes fade, I hear the tick, tick, tick of Ms. Stricker’s metronome again, and the clock still reads 1:26. I jump when Ms. Stricker steps into the room, smiling, and says the song was beautiful, something she’s never told me before. Pride and excitement swell in my chest. I played the magical song and traveled through time again! I think of Melody, my fingers itching to play the song again and get back to her.

Ms. Stricker says Mom will be here soon, so I should take the music home and make it mine.

I put the music in my bag. It already feels like mine, more than anything I’ve ever played. Silently, I promise Melody I’ll be back soon.