The Music of Spring: So Conventional
As I stared, Daddy held a finger to his lips and picked up a long handled mallet. Gently, he struck the longest bar on the top of the instrument.
A deep and penetrating tone filled the nook and I reached out for the mallet. He handed me four of them, then stepped aside.
I gazed down at glossy polished rosewood, and whispered, “Daddy, what is it?”
“This is a marimba, Aoede, and it belongs to you.”
The bars in their framework rested like piano keys, and I knew I would play this instrument forever. I struck a four-note chord, more strongly than I intended, and my mother discovered us.
“Oh Zeus, no. She should continue her piano studies.”
“She has never enjoyed piano, Memosyne, and you know that. Stop being so conventional.”
When my Daddy spoke in that tone, my fears fled. I hammered out an elaborate scale run with as many flourishes as my hands would perform.
The marimba resonated in our parlor for ten years, blending elegantly with the other rosewood furniture. To my mother’s disgust, when my father received a new assignment, I had saved enough money to ship the marimba along with us. I expected to continue my private study and enjoyment of my music, but Daddy spoiled my fun on the first day of school.
“You’re a strong solo musician, Aoede my sweet, but it’s time you learned the joy of performing with others. This is the year you join the marching band.”
“Marching band, oh Daddy, no! I hate the clarinet!”
“Has the director demanded you play the clarinet?”
I shook my head, and Daddy lifted my chin so that I had to look in his eyes.
He winked, and said, “Try out for the percussion section, and see what happens.”
The Music of Spring is a short story in nine parts. Read the next installment at: The Music of Spring: Glockenspiel Jingle.
Read more of my published short stories here.
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