We sit down in our bones

Margie had a growth removed from her face this past week and didn’t want a closeup today, but I told her about the piano and showed her a picture of it on my phone. She clapped her hands, and after I told her the back-story, she assured me it was a good decision. She says the fact that I had some lessons when I was 10 will make a big difference.

“What you learn young, you hold onto,” she told me. “I remember my childhood, even if I can’t tell you what I was reading five minutes ago. Your body will remember what you learned at 10. Your hands won’t be as flexible as they were, but you’ll remember how to hold them.”  

I don’t know how she knows that. She says she has never played an instrument, but I think she’s right. She sat quietly sipping her coffee and patted my hand, and then she beamed at me and said, “You’re coming home to yourself. That’s what getting old is all about. We’ve done our work in the world, and we come home to ourselves. We sit down in our bones, and there we are.” 

The place where we go for coffee is just a block from Margie’s apartment. I said I was going to walk to Powell’s after our coffee, to look for a good piano instruction book, so she didn’t let me walk her home. “You go on to Powell’s, I’ll be fine,” she insisted, waving me off. “I can see the door to my building from here, so I won’t get lost.”