Every day when you arrive to class, Ms. Persimmon will be playing her piano.  She sings songs of welcome and instructional verses about putting your lunch box in the cubby, or washing your hands after playing with Herbert the gerbil, or being nice, or anything else that needs singing.  She painted the old upright blue with flowers and sunshine and happy animals. 

One day, she will assemble the children around the piano bench, and ask, “Does anyone play piano?”  Of course, Marta with the amazing curly hair, will jump on that like a hyperactive puppy, plop her butt onto the bench, unleash a discourse on her musical training, and place her hands very carefully in home position (thumbs on middle c).  She starts into “Twinkle, Little Star” loud and confident, if lacking a bit in the subtleties of rhythm.  The other kids are amazed, and cheering erupts as she botches the ending.  As the class quiets, Ms. Persimmon sings out, “That is fantastic!  So talented, Marta.  Anyone else play piano?”  

You got that beat.  You will push your way to the front, climb up the bench and orient yourself to the keys. “Oh great!  What are you going to play for us?”   

You will look down and notice a key has lost its ivory cover.  Cookie crumbs and a pencil are in the music stand.  The class is electric anticipation.  You will smile at Ms. Persimmon.  

Of course, you don’t play piano.  You’ve never touched a piano.  You know more about flying jets than making music.  

This feeling.  This moment.  It will be the recurring motif in the composition of your life.  Answering the call – unprepared, unqualified and uniquely untalented.  

You will stare at the keys, grit your teeth, and raise your fists to play.