10 years old, I thought I could do anything
My mom said
"In reality, you'll never make it big figure skating."
-A sharp note-
5 AM skating practices, all I knew was the cutting cold.
10 years old thinking, “but mom I’m working my ass off.”
-Several Harsh Notes.-
Childhood played back to me in D sharp minor.
At 10 years old minor chords meant to me, a sad song.
"Why is mom making me learn piano?" "She always does things her way."
Tragic, incomplete, unwanted cadence.
13 years old, "Dad never talks to me”
“Dad doesn’t love me”
-A dull note-
15 years old, "No one ever listens"
"Why should I do that, why am I doing this.""Why do I look this way?" "Why do I feel this way?" "Why do I think this way?" "Why do I try so hard" "Why is everything so difficult?" "Why.. Why? Why do I even exist?"
-Many angry, obnoxiously loud, sour notes.
“I hate the piano.”-
Egotistical, and histrionic….
I so ignorantly believed I was always right.
That erratic music, could solely, possibly mean erroneous music.
Regardless; 7 years ago, mom waited there.
Sitting in the bitter cold.
5 years enduring, and only growing old. Praying I’d do well in competition.
Because 10 year old me loved figureskating.
And because weary mom, in turn, loved me.
And because mom wanted the best for me
The sharp retort she once blurted out, she still regrets.
And 30 years ago, my mom wanted to learn piano
So captivated by its unique sound she thought to herself
That she’d share the same amazement that resounded in her
With her child.
Complete expression, perfect compassion.
Soulful intent. Promised commitment.
Subtle, and once unnoticed, her melody reverberates.
Quiet, but pronounced
Like steady staccatos with forte deliverance.
He is the embodiment of stoicism
A repairman, a healer, a comforter, a provider
Who used to work at a pungent dry cleaners defiled with dust, and odor
Who works at a rundown, worn out car repairs shop.
Who never shows weakness in the face of financial hell.
Whose love literally bleeds for me
Sweat intermixed into the cuts and the callouses engraved in his hands.
My father, is my sturdy foundation
Notes of pessimism I cultivated within pages of confusion, of wavering intermittence
Collapse beneath my parents support and confidence.
All along my song has not just been one phrase
but of many that have emerged out of developmental phases
Music pours from my soul, the mystic beauty of the accompaniment of my mother’s flute, of my father’s trombone
Have my parents’ tune always been so perfectly harmonious?
I’ve come to recognize. I’ve come to realize.
The silent rests my father produces are of traditional South Korean tune.
That the Asiatic style my family nurtured me in
That the awkward harmonic scale my adolescence consists of
I could not “simply” understand until I learned that different is okay.
That mistakes are made.
That harsh, sharp, flat, loud, sound mellifluous with other notes.
That all notes have purpose.
Some to convey my childhood abyss.
How could I have not known
That love was shown in every other measure
That I did not read meticulously
Where I did not listen carefully.
Sharp notes. Soft notes. Flat notes. Dull notes. Piercing notes.
Clashing notes that collide but never converge.
Major Keys, minor keys, chromatic scales.
Music fills the air.