this morning, i sat alone in a sea of white hair in a theatre in sacramento for five hours, for a live broadcast of richard strauss' der rosenkavalier from the metropolitan opera in new york city. five hours. if you take into account the length of a hypothetical recess and a lunch break, that's only about 45 minutes short of a full day at elementary school. i could fly to new york in less than five hours. susan graham, a mezzo soprano, played the title role and nailed it to the wall. however, despite all the grandeur that accompanies a starring (and lengthy) role at an opulent institution such as the met, she managed to retain an odd kind of homeliness that struck me as more appropriate for a jean-wearing yard duty who consoles seven year olds with skinned knees, and less for a silver-tunic'd and viennese-waltzing trouser part.

my father is in love with susan graham but stayed at home so he could practice the piano.

he was practicing when i came home. he's been taking lessons for a little less than a year now, and at age fifty-eight, is finally developing a crude sense of rhythm. as a child, i remember watching him drive, tapping the side of his thumb against the summer-hot steering wheel. the rolling stones would be playing, but the tapping of his thumb didn't appear to correspond with the music at all. now, for the first time in his life, he can keep a beat, subdivide it into two and three and four if ambition strikes. if he turns to say something to you but leaves the metronome on, it's his way of saying that he's not done practicing yet and that the dialogue is intended to be brief. he'll answer his phone and the metronome will be a steady layer of 80 beats per minute under the one side of his conversation. it's like talking to somebody who is riding a train, and who hasn't decided when they'll disembark.

his enthusiasm reassures me that, even if it is thirty-six years from now, biology will dictate that i find myself returning to the piano, and loving it again.