by John Tuason

There’s a mall in the Philippines called The Rockwell Center. There was a grand piano on the first floor. Was it a Boston? Maybe a Bosendorfer. Whatever the case may be, when someone would play, the whole mall seemed to fall silent. It was as if there was a spotlight of sound. Kids would run up and bang their hands on either extreme of the keyboard, the harsh combination of notes rang throughout the mall, interrupting conversations and causing people’s faces to contort. I was with my grandmother at the time, she loved classical music. 

They pushed her casket into a furnace over Zoom in the summer of 2020. I didn’t even see it get pushed. It just cut from casket to fire because of wifi issues. Is that my last memory of her? The image glitching and the fire engulfing her casket?  

I sat down on the worn out piano bench in front of the Bosen-.  No, Steinway and Sons. I was nervous. Not to play my etude, I’d practiced countless hours. I knew it like the back of my hand.  I was nervous to be the center of attention, but my dad kept insisting, so I tried to ignore the shakes. My dad was recording on his phone from this avantgard angle in which the camera was pointed directly at the ground. The very first note I played was wrong, so I had to do a jazz-like modulation to find the key I was looking for. I felt hundreds of pairs of eyes lock unto me. I looked at her as if she was my last excuse to get up from that piano bench. She just nodded, so I just played.  

I still read our facebook messages. I was so bad at responding to her, who in their right mind uses Facebook messenger anyway? I sent her videos of me playing some Rachmaninoff. She responded: “Bravo!” As I typed that I could hear her say it, she used to yell this from her room after I finished stumbling through any piece when she lived with us. Is that how we remember people? Hearing their voice when you type their words? 

A little b- A little girl came up to me after I played. She stared me dead in the eyes for a good  5 seconds and then ran away. The silence lingered, I think people thought I was gonna play more, little did they know, I only knew one song. We later went to eat at this restaurant on the thir- second floor of the mall. My dad pulled out his phone and showed us the video he took. We all laughed because he recorded the floor for most of the video and then the camera shot up into my grandmother’s face. She looked so- She looked so happy. 

Oh. my. god. The way my Lola ate bananas was a sight to behold. She wore dentures for a long time, they looked kind of funny, they were way too white to look like real teeth. Anyways, when it came to the bananas, no dentures were needed. I can still hear the squishing of potassium between her gums. Dear god. She would laugh, half eaten banana still in her mouth, mind you, make eye contact with me and chew it louder. 

I don’t remember much of that trip to the mall, but neither did she. 

I don’t remember what she looked like. 

I don’t remember how she smiled. 

I don’t remember what her laugh sounded like. 

Towards the end she forgot my name. What hurt more was her not recognizing my face. I leaned in for a hug and she whispered with her raspy, pre-death voice “Who are you?” Is it selfish to wish that she remembered me at the end? What was our entire relationship for if she just forgot? I have no qualms anymore, I know I’ll forget my grandchildren, Alzheimer’s runs in the family. 

However: 

I do remember what that godforsaken banana sounded like. 

I do remember the hug you gave me when I played Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude in that church in DC. I remember the perfume you were wearing. I remember when you would wake up extra early on Sundays so you had more time to look good for church. I remember going to the movies and you dropping an entire large popcorn on the floor and just whispering “Aye nako.”  I remember the good times with you. And when I play Rachmaninoff’s Musical Moments no. 16 I cry because I remember you closing your eyes and wiggling your toes in your wheelchair, as if to absorb every note. And when I hit that final chord I hold it a little bit longer than I should, waiting to hear that “Bravo!” 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Tuason is a sophomore at Virginia Tech. He is passionate about piano and writing about Elves, Drugs, and Alzheimer’s.