piano music

I got home late last night and heard the piano from the house across the street. Wayne is a virtuoso and when he plays, he opens his front door and the music becomes his gift to anyone lucky enough to be outside. It was late, though, and he gets up at 4:00 a.m.

A check of the calendar and I realized why. Yesterday was the 13th anniversary of Ronnie's death. Big, goofy Ronnie, a sweet man, my gardening buddy, my friend. Ronnie had been a Detroit cop for 15 years, but once he met Wayne, he was hassled to the point he had to give up the job he loved. For the man he loved. We all make trade-offs but Ronnie loved his work and it was a huge loss. Only a fool will pass by love when it comes, though, and Ronnie was no fool. He was a good cop, a good neighbor, my friend.

We never talked about AIDS but I knew he was sick. I'd seen the purple spots before he started wearing long sleeves year round. He was losing weight and his vitality was draining away.

The police came one night, then an ambulance. I could hear him yelling from across the street. Though he came back home two weeks later, he was never the same. The dementia that comes with AIDS is a horror. Another two weeks and the ambulance again, late at night. No return this time, just a funeral four days later and a broken heart across the street and enormous sadness in my house.

After the funeral, Wayne played the piano. It was warmer that April and the doors and windows were open, his and ours. He played and played, around the clock. I don't know if he ate anything, though I took him food, checked on him. His grief was a physical presence in that house, a weight, something alive and unbearable. The only thing that helped at all, he said, was playing the piano.

He played the piano for Ronnie as he had done for years. Music to remind him of his love, music to speak of his loss when he had no words to do so. It was love and anguish and heartbreak and regret that kept his fingers moving over those keys night and day for weeks and weeks. When it finally stopped, it stopped for good. Now I hear it only on the anniversary and I wonder if he plays with his eyes closed, imagining for just a moment that Ronnie is still here, still the audience of one. If he turns around, he'll see him lounging on the sofa, looking at him with love. With love. Such loss. How do any of us go on in the face of such loss?