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 is wandering. One more piano recital, and then off to guitar. Our fifth grade class will start to learn guitar at school next year. Anika, my best friend, and me can jam together. Goodbye to classical music!

The metronome grows louder, and then I realize that it’s actually my piano teacher who’s clapping to get my attention. Ms. Stricker is frowning. Anika and I don’t call her “Ms. Strict” for nothing. I asked if I made a mistake, and she says I’m playing the notes perfectly. But there’s no passion in my peace. My heart isn’t in it. She sounds like my dad, who’s always telling me to find my passion. He’s a politician, so he’s passionate about helping people and making a difference in our community. But I’m not sure if piano is my passion. Sometimes when I read music, it flows straight from my eyes to my fingertips. It must skip my brain, because I can think about something else while I’m playing. Maybe it is also skipping my heart.

I apologize to Ms. Stricker, trying not to stare at the mole above her eyebrow. She sighs and says it’s time for a different song. A different song? The recital is only two weeks away. Ms. Stricker rummages around in her cabinet while I hum the melody of my new favorite song, “Lemonade Days.” I can’t hit the high notes like the singer can in her music video, but Anika can. I wish I could play that song! But instead, Ms. Stricker hands me an old stained piece of music with dog-eared corners. It’s titled “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”

As I sight-read the music, my fingers start to play, and the song takes shape. It sounds like a gospel song my grandma and I used to sing at church. As I play the soulful song, I feel a pain of sadness. Grammy died a few months ago. I can almost hear her singing the first line: Lift every voice, and sing, till earth and heaven ring. When I reach the second verse, something happens. The voice in my head swells, joined by other voices. But there’s nobody else in the room. I can’t hear the metronome anymore. I don’t hear the phone ring either, when Ms. Stricker says she needs to step out to answer the call. I keep playing the music, as if I can’t stop. The imaginary choir continues to sing, and my fingers march on across the keys. As I play the final note of the song, I feel a breeze. The sheet music flutters and the room darkens. I see nothing except the blue numbers on the clock, blinking 1:26. Then it all fades away.

I rub my eyes. The sheet music is still in front of me, but something else has changed. There’s a clock on the piano, but it’s shaped differently. And this piano is lighter colored and covered with a fine layer of dust, unlike Ms. Stricker’s mahogany piano. There’s a bulletin board hanging above the piano, and it has a poster that says “Walk to Freedom with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.” I squint to read the print at the bottom: Detroit, Michigan. Sunday, June 23, 1963.

Then, I hear a voice behind me. I whirl around, and see a young girl standing in the doorway. She’s about my age, wearing a sleeveless green and blue checked dress that pops against her golden brown skin. The dress flares out at the bottom. It reminds me of the dress my grandma wears in the photo of her as a teenager. The girl says that was amazing. I ask if she means the Walk to Freedom, and she laughs and says she meant my piano playing. But the Walk to Freedom last summer was amazing, too. She marched in it.

Last summer? The poster says the Walk to Freedom happened in 1963. That was more than 50 years ago. Then I notice the room around me. It’s filled with fold up tables and chairs, like a meeting hall. I see an old typewriter, and a black telephone on the table with a long, twisted cord. Everything in this room seems old-fashioned. Questions swirl through my mind. Is this the craziest daydream ever, or did I just play my way back in time?

The girl says her name is Melody. And she loves the song I just played. Her grandma is upstairs with the rest of the congregation, and she loves that song, too. She asks if she goes to get her grandma, if I’ll play the song again. I nod, and the girl spins on her heel and clatters up the stairs. I try to remember the last time anyone seemed so happy to hear me play piano. Definitely not Ms. Strict at lessons this afternoon. But there is something special about this song I just finished. My finger strokes the keys again, softly. But after the first verse, I barely need to read the music. I sail through the song, hearing the voices rise up around me.

I close my eyes and let the music fill me up. As the last notes fade away, I hear a tick, tick, tick. I see the silver bar of Ms. Stricker’s metronome. And the clock with blue numbers that still read 1:26. When Ms. Stricker steps into the room, I jump. She’s smiling and says that the song was beautiful. I’ve never heard her say that a song I played was beautiful before. Pride swallows in my chest, and I feel excited. I played the magical song and somehow traveled through time again! And then I think of Melody. My fingers itch to play the song again and get back to her. Ms. Stricker says my mom will be here soon, so I should take the music home and polish it and make it mine.

I put the music back into my bag. The song already feels like mine, more than anything else I’ve ever played on the piano. I think of a private message to Melody to tell her that I’ll be back soon.