I emailed myself the various obits I found for my music teacher, and every time I open that email account, his passing weighs on my chest. But it’s not his passing, exactly; rather, it’s my failing to achieve what he knew I could.
He wore short sleeved button up shirts, knit cardigans, and pants. He stacked thick volumes on the floor and placed a music stand on top, so it would be the right height for my lesson. He frequently tried to get me to sing an A, or a D, and I never would. He knew when I was ready to try out for the junior symphony, to play in a chamber group, to switch from violin to viola, so I had more opportunity to shine. He encouraged me to minor in music. He berated me for not practicing. He was disappointed when I quit taking lessons. He welcomed me into his home years later when I stopped by.
The music I played for him still runs through my fingers and streams across my thoughts.
Thank you.