Für Elise

I sat with my spine as straight as the needle my mother used once to sew my favorite childhood stuffed white dove on that black rigid stool as I let my fingers dance over the keys of the shiny grand piano enveloped by the hollow stage. Beethoven’s Für Elise flooded the small space, and I was gifted with the unceasing attention of about 58 strangers. It was a full house and the auditorium seated 60 classical music enthusiasts. 

I had rehearsed this piece so fluidly my brain needed not to think of what chords followed, my eyes needed not to read the sheet music resting on the stand, and the muscles of my fingers needed not to be told to move. My performance was absolutely flawless.

 My audience of 58 felt the soul of Beethoven pour into their minds and strip their hardships from the smallest crevesses of their 3 pound brains; the look in their eyes was all too familiar. It was the same haze the priests at Church are in when they imagine Jesus grab their hand as they prepare the Eucharist. Mom and Dad made it a chore for me to go to Sunday Mass. I continue to fulfill my Christian duties, but I have yet to release the same passion that the priests do. It’s become routine, like going grocery shopping at 6:30 pm each Wednesday, or, better yet, like playing this piece.

But there in the second row, my parents felt only the corpse of the infamous composer. My father’s heavy red drunken eyes stared blankly at the brunette’s split ends in front of his chair. If only he tilted his eyes up about thirty degrees higher he could have seen Beethoven’s soul too.

 My mother’s distracted eyes glanced up at me every once in a while, though her pupils were not dilating due to her pure enhanced state that my performance created for everyone else. She was texting her side-piece, Joey. But I guess I can’t really blame her. I mean her husband is sitting right next to her and probably doesn’t even know where he is. 

After the last chord of Für Elise echoed through my high school gymnasium, the curtains closed and the lights turned on. Some upperclassmen gave a short prompted speech about donating money and thanked us for coming. 

I decided my standing ovation sufficed as my reward for playing my instrument so elegantly. Truthfully, I was jealous of seeing the other freshman greeted with praise and flowers from their loving parents. I was bitter.

This was a right of passage for me though. It was the moment I entered a new stage in my life where I finally stopped idolizing my parents as gods and goddesses. As I shifted from a tadpole to a frog, Athena turned into Mom, and Aries into Dad. I gaped beneath their divine cloaks and witnessed their raw, banal figure. Just regular humans, nothing special.

It took me quite a while until I actually accepted them as typical members of a functioning society. They were merely the Big Guy’s tools to complete the jobs their assigned role demanded. 

I began to develop a healthy distance between them, learning about my own role without their influence; an influence I noticed was rarely present in my life anyway. I didn’t know where to begin trying to discover where I stood on this small insignificant planet, so I did what any other teenager would do and joined a bunch of clubs. Very unique clubs, by the way. 

While Mom was impressed with how I was building my college resume, Dad was pissed because I stopped playing piano. But he wasn’t angry because I would no longer be filling the house with the soft hums of a large oak tree, or the rough war cries of a vast ocean; he was furious that I “wasted” his money for years over lessons just for me to end up being a quitter. 

“A quitter” is what he called me. A damn quitter.

I graduated at the top of my small high school class and got into a big college for Pre-Med. It wasn’t an Ivy or anything, but I was very impressed with myself. I walked across the same small wooden stage that I once played Für Elise in my first school concert, this time wearing an oversized blue cap and gown. I was the last one to firmly shake my principal's fragile old hands even though my last name starts with the letter “G”. But I was the first Glimando to wear that cheap silver-lined sash with the word “Valedictorian” so eloquently printed across it in bold capital letters.

I gave a lengthy speech about paying attention to the small details in our lives; ironically, my mom was doing anything but that as I spoke. But this time, there were only 59 filled seats. My dad didn’t show. He got too drunk the night before and was irritated that my graduation ceremony was scheduled in the morning. He reckoned nobody cared enough to watch some teenagers get handed a rolled piece of paper at 10 in the morning. It didn’t bother me too much though because my speech got a standing ovation. I love those. 

In college I made more connections than a parallel circuit. They revealed my small wired circle had more bulbs to light than I had originally imagined. They taught me how to turn my switch on and off when I needed to, separating my head and heart like a lumberjack splitting a small log to create different sized fires. 

We worked together to magnify our minds and make the best of those [very short] four years. It was a lot harder to be at the top of my class in such an enormous and rigorous environment. However, I still saw myself as succeeding. 

I was secure and set up for a successful career; since I did so well in high school I was able to conserve my college savings fund for medical school. Everything seemed to be going as smooth as a jar of Skippy peanut butter. The sweet spread became chunky after Mom and I booked an appointment with our family’s accountant. 

A white porcelain doll’s skin could not even compare to how white my face turned after he told us there was no money in my savings fund. I sat on that small sturdy chair with navy blue cushions and the arms of the chair became ice cold. He was talking about how my dad’s name was on the funds and how he withdrew all the money over the course of the four years I spent in college with tired eyes everyday trying my hardest to excel in all of my classes. His monotone voice became foggy, and it seemed like he was used to this type of scenario. Both mine and my mother’s eyes grew wide and red with flaming anger. I was not hurt; I was devastated. 

When I returned home I listened as Mom and my father argued with loud thunder. It was a storm unlike no other.

“Where did all the money go Paul?” I heard her yell. It was her money too.

It turns out my father is the “man of the house” and he “needs booze to deal with [us].” I don’t want to go into detail about what exactly he said because my thunder may transition into pouring rain. Nobody enjoys when rain floods the basement and destroys every memory captured in photographs stored in labeled boxes.

I started to see my father as Aries again, the god of war. I saw that it truly did speak to his character; all he’s ever done was drop bombs and cause destruction and suffering anywhere he goes. I have always been a pacifist and war was my enemy. I was fed up and was not willing to fight for a relationship that provided only baggage that was full to the brim and too heavy to carry. So I let the anger and pain drop from the palm of my developing hands and walked away, and so did Mom.

She was only staying with him to not break up our family, but she soon realized our family was broken since the first time my dad downed a beer home alone in distress. She gave into her distractions and moved in with Joey. She filed for a divorce terminating the binding contract that chained them to each other ‘til death do them part’. Although now that they’ve parted, Mom has never felt more alive.

  With encouragement from Mom, I used my own fortitude and left the barriers of my old house. I found my home in a small apartment building in Detroit. It had yellow walls everywhere except the bathroom, those were a light green. Joey actually contributed to my medical school funds. Along with his generous support and a hefty amount of student loans I was able to follow my dream of being a doctor. It was a long marathon and I finally cut through the shiny finish line. I was drenched in sweat and my muscles were sore. But I made it through, and I didn’t need a standing ovation to push me through to the end of the race.  

Honestly, I imagined cutting ties with my father for good would have a bigger toll on my emotions. I pictured Dad getting down on his knees, rain pouring down but the thunder was soft and almost desperate for the storm to resolve. I thought he’d desire a rainbow, but the truth is he demanded a hurricane.