My father died in March ‘25. He’d been my best friend and I’d cared for him for the last 3 yrs including just over a year in which he was bed bound, but for a hoist to his bedside armchair. He’d given up playing altogether in about 2021 and professionally a few years before that. I decided to try and inure myself against the problem of being reduced to tears on hearing his ‘signature tunes’ as it were, by trying to learn them myself, although I hadn’t played the piano for 40 years or so and never had lessons after I took up the violin aged 9. I’m not really sure it works as a cure for grief though the struggle has made me love the ones I’ve learnt less. When I look at my ageing pink hands playing they remind me of naked mole rats.
Dance little naked mole rats,
Skipping over keys,
Sniff out and nose the happy notes,
Bend your rheumy knees,
Tired hands, wrinkled skin,
Much easier to just give in
And play the weeping violin,
Bowing through neurological space,
Sustaining pace,
To the dark side of the moon,
In every moody, Hebrew tune.
Keep going girls, don’t stumble,
You’re missing notes out here and there,
Take care,
Articulate don’t mumble,
Climb the stairs, clipped and swift,
Let melody become the lift,
Let the piano do the talking
As you do your dancing-walking,
Bring forgetfulness
Good cheer,
With joyful music to my ear,
Keep up, poor, rusty naked moles,
Fill the gaping grief-shaped holes.
