The Mysteries of Her Piano

I had rescued the moment by using my camera, and in that way had found how to stop time and hold

it. No one could take that image away from me because I owned it. Gazing down at the precious

fragment of my mother, loosely held together through the piano keys, I brushed my fingers across the

polaroid while I cast my mind back to that moment.

It was just when my legs started to drift across the polished-wood flooring that I heard a noise.

No, not a noise; a sublime melody of notes, and chords, and all visions of heaven. Beguiled by the

harmonies I began to chase it. The Polaroid camera clung to my neck as a precious infant holds onto

their mother. While the discordant pulse of the object on my chest fought against the sweeping suite of

piano notes, I cradled it in my hands.

Taking heed in twisting the door handle, I ensured not a single sound escaped as to not disrupt the

melodious euphonies. In the process of entering the dull room, the grandiose ornaments overbore my

vision engulfing an unwelcomed view. Failing to steal my sight away, my eyes approached the pianist,

my mother. I had never seen her near an instrument till this day, which unexpectedly gave me an

uncomfortable sense. My mother was never the one to waste her time with instruments, but here she

was lounging in one.

Edging closer, the gleaming hardwood glistened even stronger, reflecting the resplendent notes from

the chessboard of the piano keys. Her decrepit fingers now robust with energy were soaring, suddenly

alive with the vigour of a teenager’s hand, ignoring its old age. The piano’s glorious strength

contrasted with her weak frame, although she appeared to gain a certain authority over the instrument,

despite the variant difference in physicalities.

Recognising this moment wouldn’t last, I seized the image through my camera, cherishing the very

sight of my mother playing the piano. Looking down at the freshly printed image, I realised that the
image didn’t capture my mother at the piano, it captured my mother’s emotions portrayed at the piano.

I saw the same expression during my grandmother’s passing, except the pain seemed to be replaced

with an enlightened renewal.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet. Abruptly, the music stopped and my eyes locked with my

mother’s. Her face was wrought with surprise. I stood there, astonished, yearning evermore to bask in

the musical excellence that I had just now discovered that my mother possessed.

“Mother? You play the piano?” I asked, in amazement.

“Only on a rare occasion,” she replied, brusquely - as though her feat was of no note.

Unable to understand her statement, my eyes widened. She seemed to be gazing off to another time. I

was curious. What was this time? What was she longing for?

“What are you thinking about, I can’t help but wonder?” I questioned, with utter astonishment.

Allowing for more space, she shifted to the left of the bench and motioned for me to sit.

“You remember my mother, don’t you?”. Her pensive eyes were warm as she brushed the loose locks

of my hair behind my ears, ruffling them once more with the sigh of her contented breath. I could see

the flicker of my grandmother concealed throughout her gaze.

“Yes, of course, I remember her”, I swiftly responded.

My mother looked up at the ceiling, contemplatively. She reminisced, in a sense of painstaking

reverence; how her mother would relentlessly seek to teach her the art of the pianist. The long nights

spent poring over musical sheets, in symbols she found most difficult to decipher. She would bark

orders at her like a soldier, and would sternly scold her when she made a mistake.

“Elsie, if you’re not here this instance, you’ll see the last of it, young lady!”

She resented that while her friends were frolicking outside in the playground, she was resigned to a

candlelit room, accompanied only by a piano and a book. But still, she would stay and toil at the
labour of learning to tame this instrument. Despite her disinterest in learning the art, she had resolved

to learn out of love for her mother. She knew it would bring her joy and happiness.

In time, the fruits of her labour began to manifest themselves. She won numerous awards, now

collecting dust on her shelf - a testament to her achievements. She performed at concerts, bringing the

beautiful sounds of Chopin and Tchaikovsky to the ears of delighted concertgoers. Her parents,

amongst the audience, beaming with pride. As she grew older, the trophies and standing ovations only

began to rise in the number and a new sudden fondness began to emerge from her.

“Coming home and admiring the trophies that built up, my mother placed her hand on my shoulder

and spoke of the toils she spent so hard on, to teach me this art. It reminded her of her mother.

“I was able to preserve her beauty through the Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin she loved.”

The memory of her mother lived on through the melodic sounds of renowned composers that would

reverberate through the house - ensuring that she would vicariously live on, through this magnificent,

musical artistry.

Nothing became real until this moment. This was a tradition. A tradition in which the women of our

family showed our love to our mothers. Once our goodbyes were grieved, we memorialised their lives

through this magnanimous instrument, from its mechanical action - the hammer underneath the keys

beating upon the strings - and through this, her heart would beat on, in unison with the piano,

defeating time and reverberating throughout the aeons.

Freeing myself from the evocation, I carefully returned the Polaroid in the box and journeyed to the

piano my mother lived through. Arranging my right foot on the pedal, and leaning forward, I began,

my fingers hypnotised by the recollection of pieces she once played. Whilst she was no longer

physically present, the piano, and its tones, be they sombre, or grandiose, ensured that she would live

on - and I would carry the very mantle I was told of.

18/20: Feedback - Don’t put the polaroid in the box, but keep it on the piano stand
 Critical Reflection

Gatsby’s pursuit of retrieving his past in the novel The Great Gatsby, by Fitzgerald, is one of the most

vital aspects of the story, depicted through a variety of literary techniques, utilized in order to evoke a

sense of longing and nostalgia. These contributed to my own creative choices, as I sought to portray

my narrator’s recollection of longing regarding her mother.

Throughout The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald was able to use the literary device of flashbacks, in order to

provide insight into the character’s history, to communicate their longing. I wanted to employ this

technique in my story to evoke a sense of sentiment, as the narrator revisited this certain moment of

her past. While Fitzgerald depicted Gatsby to metaphorically “stretch[ed] out his hand”, he was able

to emphasise Gatsby’s own longing for his past with Daisy. In this instance, I utilized flashback,

through the photo that instigated the memory the narrator had with her mother. I aimed to convey a

feeling of sorrowful contentment as the narrator “[freed herself] from the evocation” and visited her

mother through the piano. The metaphor allowed the audience to determine that the flashback

occurring through her mind caused her to react in a way that commemorated her mother. Thus, I was

able to use various techniques within the flashback in order to obtain a contrasting outcome than

Fitzgerald, hence, establishing a sense of nostalgia and longing.

Additionally, the use of symbolism throughout The Great Gatsby allowed Fitzgerald to emphasise

certain notions he strived to display. The concept of Gatsby’s inaccurate vision of time, represented

through Nick’s clock, informed the audience that no matter how hard one may try, time can never be

restored or reversed. This is clearly evident as the “clock took this moment to tilt

dangerously...whereupon he caught it”. Since the clock was so near to becoming destroyed it heeded

to how Gatsby was never able to overcome time, further indicating his want for the past. I took this

technique and sought to convey the symbolism of the piano as a mediator in which the narrator and

characters were able to reminisce and preserve their mothers. When the narrator declares how “the

piano...ensured that she would live on” it symbolised how through playing this instrument, they were
able to emblematically resurrect their dead mothers, hence creating a sense of nostalgia toward their

lives.

Therefore, I was able to compose the narrator’s sensation of reminiscence through the creative choices

I encountered in Fitzgerald’s novel, The Great Gatsby. I, as a writer, illustrated the techniques of

flashbacks and symbolism to enhance the nostalgia my narrator conveyed for her mother.