Years ago, while my grandfather was still alive there was a golden brown upright piano that sat in his living room. I’d sit on the bench and listen to the sound of the keys as I’d cycle through them one at a time. I wanted to hear the notes— to feel the music in my bones. I’d close my eyes and hum the note. New stories sparking to life before my mind.

I stopped sitting at the piano after more than one key began to play. It started with the treble keys. I’d be pressing on a key on the middle and I’d hear the light twinkle of treble— turning to my right I could see the key pressed flat. It lifted and as I played my next key the bass section sounded. The key there also pressed flat and released after.

The room held more than just myself as I sat at the bench. The musty drapes and old magazines had a smell of long years to them. National Geographic littered the house and multiple rooms were packed full— having not been used in years.

I look back and wonder if the keys were the embodied loneliness of a man that had more family than most, but an empty house to live in.

I’d wander through the basement— under view of the jars of preserved fruit on the walls that lined the rooms. My grandparents had lived through the great depression and they had prepared for the next one. After he passed, my middle sibling and I had to dispose of the botulism tainted beans— garbanzo in particular— that still held residence on the shelves. We dug a shallow hole and poured the beans inside— trying to cover them up before the noxious fumes proved stronger than our constitutions. But like a scene out of an old zombie film, they began gurgling to the surface like a slow-acting volcano at a science fair.

That house had an overgrown backyard that had a playset with broken swings that still took you to touching distance with the sky. I remember the stubborn splinters I’d have after riding on the disintegrating wooden seat after pretending I could fly. I’d keep my eye peeled for roaming animals that might stop at the crowded waiting pool that vines and shrubbery threatened to completely hide.

My first crush lived two doors down from my grandfather’s house. Her name was Sadie (I assume it still is). I remember the electric thrill of talking with her and playing whatever child games you have during the empty summer months. Her face doesn’t exist to me now— just a cloud of half-remembered emotions. Her parents were split— and her father once rode a mini-bike down the street. I remember her admonishing me for my family making comments about her father being a dumb ass. I tried arguing they couldn’t have been arguing about that— not wanting to be on the bad side of my first romantic interest— but the dye had been cast.

At some point I forgot the ghost and the girl— I didn’t forget my grandfather though. There’s a starfish tattooed over my heart for him. It’s from a belt buckle I received after his death. One of my aunt figured that I was the only one who was going to use any of his belt buckles, so I received the whole collection. I hadn’t wanted to forget him— not that you forget family like that— but I look back and realize I was fighting the fear I felt after the last time I saw him in the hospital. The man that taught me the intricacies of humor, eating pie, and playing chess saw me awkwardly stand in the doorway and asked who I was. He was so far gone on medication that my name and face slid from his mind like a car on an icy road. I was crushed— unable to breathe out the pain of being unrecognizable to a dear loved one.

I didn’t let out that long held breath until a long night on the island where I realized why I had gotten my tattoo. Over the heart and everything— no surer sign you don’t want to forget. What I was asking was for myself to not be forgotten— and to not forget loved ones in turn.

The ghosts of the past are there for a reason— and some just want to sit beside us and play a couple keys as we figure out what the music of the universe is.