all souls

My son played in his first piano recital last Sunday. It was Halloween themed, the teacher rewarded the participants with candy and “orbs,” or a paper mache pinata painted up like a spooky head. Emil chose to dress as a ghost, a white frayed and fringed sheet worn in two parts, a frock and a mask. His mom warned him that he should take off the mask while playing, otherwise he might not be able to see the sheet music. I knew he had memorized the piece, though, so I supported him leaving it on, which he did. It also seemed important to him to stay in character. He did a bang-up job, plunking out the piece’s spooky, staccato rhythms, his legs swaying in rhythm below the piano bench because they were too short to reach the ground. Afterwards we took a picture with his teacher with his mask off, the bottom half of the costume looking like a frayed acolyte’s robe. I felt a bit bad for my parents, who were also in attendance, sitting a safe several rows behind us, because this is the closest they are likely to see their son get to a first communion. Still, it suits us. Our little nontraditional family unit. Instead of sacred rites and holy water and incense, before this altar stood an older piano teacher and her young student, side by side and smiling after a wildly successful rendition of “The Ghost Who Couldn’t Say Boo.”

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