“Hey, lady!” he shouted, his voice muffled. “Cut out that racket! You’re keeping the whole neighborhood awake with your pathetic plinking!”
Startled, I just gazed at him. “I… I’m so sorry,” I stumbled out, despite a little voice in my head objecting. Not one of my other neighbors had ever complained before, and it was hardly 11 a.m.
I was shaking as the man stomped off. I felt as though my haven of peace had been compromised when I shut the piano’s lid.
I shut all the windows the following day before I started playing. I hoped that the muted and restricted music would maintain the tranquility.
Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” was only ten minutes into listening to it when my doorbell began to ring loudly. I answered it with a heavy heart.
A woman scowled at me, her features strained. She spit out, “Listen here, old lady.” “The grave calls, and you continue to hammer on that piano? I’ll report you to the HOA if you don’t quiet down.”
I realized then that she was the wife of my new neighbor.
I had a slap-like feeling. Weakly, “I… I closed all the windows,” was my response.
As she pivoted on her heel, she exclaimed, “Well, it’s not enough!” “Quit making noise with your stupid piano!”
I let my head drop against the door frame, tears starting to form. “Oh, Jerry,” I said in a whisper. “What do I do?”
His voice seemed almost too good to be true. “Bessie, you play. You put your all into the game. Never stop, not for anyone.”
However, I was unable to force myself to press down as I sat at the piano, my fingers lingering over the keys.
Days went by, and I made every effort. I covered the windows with cardboard, only sometimes played, and even thought of putting the piano in the basement, where no one would hear it.
However, nothing appeared to please my new neighbors—or the Grinches, as I’d come to refer to them—in my imagination.
My heart hurt to think that I would be separated from my beloved instrument—even by a flight of steps. This piano was more than simply an item; it was a living link to Jerry and our shared life, a manifestation of my spirit.
That evening, as I played the piano, I lost myself in the music and temporarily forgot about those annoying neighbors.
I went outside the following morning to take care of my little herb garden. What I saw instantly stopped me in my tracks.
The nasty words “SHUT UP!” were sprayed in angry red letters on the wall.
I fell to my knees in tears. “Jerry, I can’t do this anymore.”
On that day, I didn’t touch my piano for the first time in decades.
I was sitting in Jerry’s armchair as night fell, holding his picture. “My dear, I’m very sorry. I simply lack the willpower to battle anymore.”
The phone’s loud ring startled me out of my reverie. I scrambled to find the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mum?” My son Jacob’s soothing voice filled the line, “It’s me.” “How are you doing?”
I forced back tears and took a deep breath. “Oh, honey, I’m good. A peaceful day spent at home.”
A pause occurred. “You don’t sound good, Mom. Is everything in order?”
“I groaned, wondering if I should tell him about my problems. Really, it’s nothing. Just a few problems with the newcomers.”
“Problems? What kinds of problems?”
I started leaking everything, including the threats, the complaints, and the destruction.
“Honey, I’m at a loss for what to do right now. I’m really lost.”
“Well, Mom, how come you didn’t tell me earlier? We were able to assist.”
