Twenty years of piano lessons. Fifteen years since I’ve studied formally. And I’m still drawn to the piano. (And I still feel guilty for not practicing…)

Mrs. Hillix was the one constant adult in my life outside of my parents or family members—from her unique vantage point, she has watched me grow from a distracted little six-year-old to the parent of one. She nurtured my love of music as if she parented it herself, even when my love for singing began to eclipse my love for the piano. And she poured encouragement into my life in more ways than I could describe in one sitting, were I even able to put those ways into words. I am forever indebted to her.

My own distracted little six-year-old had her first piano lesson yesterday. “I already know how to play the piano,” she announced as she sat down, enthusiasm in her squeaky little voice. “Want to hear me make some music?” And out it flowed, through her tiny, grimy little fingers. Music. My child was making music. I could hardly contain myself.

“Two black ants,” she played on the black keys, her eyes lighting up to be told by “Miss Candy” that she’d just sight-read her first song. Such excitement packed in two little black keys. She carries the book around with her, and she’s practiced four times already in two days—she doesn’t get that from me. And next week, we begin duets.

I get to make music with my daughter.

I can’t wait to tell Mrs. Hillix.

family life motherhood raising girls reminiscing