the piano parable
Day 5 of 22: El Sereno & Other Interruptions
Yesterday was a half-day at school, which in parent-time means: early dismissals blending into sick days blending into holidays, and absolutely no sense of linear time.
My daughters have been getting sick for the entirety of November. They’re like polite Victorian children taking turns fainting. First one, then the other. Then both. And now me, for the stereotypical gothic ending. Must be that time of the year, everyone agrees at pickup, and I nod while clutching emergency snacks to stave off meltdowns.
Será el sereno,1 my abuela would say when I started coughing. Or Cúbrase mija, que el sereno la va a agarrar—cover up, the night air will get you. She warned me about it with the same urgency other people reserve for actual emergencies. What I gathered from context clues was that el sereno is a killer draft, the crisp chill past twilight, and it will catch you if you don’t bundle up.
Maracaibo doesn’t get cold like this. We don’t even have seasons. But even matriarchs in La Tierra del Sol Amada2 will find a way to fear the weather. My mother-in-law, who has lived through decades of Northeastern winters, offers me wool socks whenever I so much as shiver in her kitchen: So you don’t get cold. No matter the climate, mama’s got the same watchfulness.
I catch myself doing it too. My daughters plotting to play outside when the sky is overcast, and instinct talks before I can catch up: It’s cold. You need a jacket!
You’ll understand when you’re a mother, my mother would counter with the universal parental non-answer. And she was right: fear sharpens when you’re responsible for someone else’s life.
So we plan, bundling against the wind, to control what we can. And yet, every week someone gets sick. Someone grows. someone needs piano lessons. The night air gets us anyway. Maybe the things we try to get back to are rarely as important as the interludes. And before I can finish this thought, there comes another—Mommyyyyyyyyy, look at my drawing, look at me dance.
What was I saying?
Oh right. I need to get a piano teacher for my daughters. Maybe after my daughter finishes her prelude, I’ll play for her this piece my pianist friend composed for them. My daughter’s future as a pianist sounds promising too, but I might be biased.
She’s done. My turn. Play.
It’s beautiful.
My daughter listens (it’s her first time). I’ve transcribed her review exactly as she said it:
It makes me think of mommy in the stars. She always makes me laugh.
I like ghosts too. Sounds like ghosts, but a cutie one.
Nothing more to say.
…
….
….
…
…
.
Why did it stop?
-Would you like to hear it again?
Ya.
And there you have it, pure poetry. So I’m taking a cue from my daughter and her simplicity. As uncomplicated and mystifying as an abuela’s axiom.
And if you need me, I’ll be over here, distracted with something or other. Grateful for the interruptions. Grateful you are here.
Listen to the piano piece that inspired my daughter’s review. Composed and performed by Marko Ivic:
ARCHIVED AS: 005/022Recent posts you might enjoy:
El Sereno is a very real cultural phenomenon across Latin America. Part folklore, part generational anxiety.
The Land of the Beloved Sun is Maracaibo’s nickname.