I stopped trying to explain why I wanted a player piano, even though everyone asked, including the piano movers.
They probably figured it was meant to be a curiosity piece and not an instrument.
“You already have a great stereo, lady,” one of the movers said when they were leaving.
I just shrugged.
It’s different, the way a real piano echoes. The way the sound reverberates in the air.
No recording can sound like real keys and hammers and strings right there in the room.
And learning to play a standard piano myself would defeat the purpose.
This way, I can pretend he still plays “Clair de Lune” for me.
If I close my eyes, it’s almost the same.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.