We've been going to Verity's piano teacher's house for lessons since school let out. It's becoming one of my favorite places. In her living room that can hold little more sit two enormous pianos. Verity joins her at the bench of one and the rest of us get comfortable on a long, deep couch covered with a sheet and pushed up against the side wall. We all bring a book to read but mine can't hold my attention. Too many curiosities creep into my mind.
Large, antique paintings hang on the walls.
From behind the curtain that hangs in the doorway to the kitchen there is movement. A young woman quietly moves aside the curtain and walks upstairs.
A bouquet of pink daisies fill a beautiful, antique vase which sits upon a heavy and scuffed coffee table.
I decide the vase came with her from Armenia, the table did not.
Then there's Verity. Silently sitting next to her teacher. We all wonder what has her attention because it's clearly not her piano lesson. Silence. More silence. After much prompting a note is played. An answer is given. "C?" "Yes, my love." It continues on like this for endless minutes.
She is such a gentle, firm teacher. After the lesson is over she declares with certainty that the problem is focus. It's like a doctor's diagnosis. A matter of fact. She says that next time we will close the curtains. After that assessment we chat comfortably. She talks to Abel. I manage a question or two and I learn that one of the paintings is of her childhood piano teacher. "Is she dead?" Verity asks. "Yes, she is." Amine answers without flinching. Then she looks at me and tells us the countless hours she spend with this woman. When her parents went on vacation she would live with this teacher. She was her family.
She points to another painting on the wall and tells us that it represents the Armenian genocide but she didn't realize that when she got it. She thought it was beautiful. It is beautiful.
"Do you ever go back?" I timidly ask. "Oh, no." she casually answers. We leave it at that.
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