The Quiet Note After the Storm
The recital was over. My granddaughter, Maya, had just played her first solo piano piece – a simple, bright thing. I sat in the back, hands resting on my knees, not the old drum kit I used to command. Just sitting. Not reaching for the bottle I’d kept hidden in the drawer for thirty years. Not needing it.
You see, the hard part wasn’t the playing. It was the not playing. For years after the crash – the lost gigs, the empty apartment, the way my old bandmate, Charlie, looked at me like I’d spat on his shoes – I couldn’t even sit near an instrument. The shame was a loud, crashing cymbal. I’d hear Charlie’s voice: “You’re not playing, you’re hiding, kid.” And I’d hide. In the bar. In the silence. In the shame.
Today, I sat. And I played. Not a solo. Just the simple, repeating melody of “My Funny Valentine” on the recital hall piano, while Maya’s teacher chatted. My hands didn’t shake. Not once. I played it through, clean, just for me. No need for the old crutch. No need to run.
That’s the small win. Not a comeback tour. Just… sitting. Playing a note. Without the old noise. It mattered because it proved I wasn’t still hiding in that empty apartment, thirty years ago. It proved the shame wasn’t the only thing left. It proved forgiveness isn’t a big, loud thing. It’s the quiet note you play when you stop running.
Here’s what I know after 78 years: You learn to play the rest notes too. The silence between the beats. The space where you stop fighting yourself. That’s where the real music lives. And today, I played that note.
— Roger Jackson, still playing