There once was a girl, maybe seven or eight, who played piano. More often than not, you could find her flipping through sheet music, and plucking out melodies with a sunshine smile lighting up her eyes. She loved piano, and piano loved her.

There once was a girl, maybe nine or ten, who played piano. Her mother drove her every Friday to see her piano teacher for a lesson. The girl would rest her hands on the keys as her teacher gently moved her hands left and right; up and down the blacks and whites, showing the girl how to play. She loved piano, and piano loved her.

There once was a girl, twelve years old by now, who remembered playing piano. She still pushed the keys with her fingers, she still was progressing through her books, and she still had her piano lessons every Friday, but with a new teacher. When her old teacher would smile, her new one would frown and adjust her hands.

“Keep your hands curved, not flat.”

“Slow down. You play too fast.”

“With the advanced music that you’re playing, technicality needs to be a serious concern.”

“You need to move back in your book. You don’t understand the theory or the technique. Music isn’t the only part of playing the piano.” But it was her favorite part.

She didn’t want to say goodbye to her fingers dancing on the keys, she didn’t want to say goodbye to pretty music, she didn’t want to say goodbye to the joy of playing. She never played piano so that she’d be able to identify a Cadd9 chord. She never wanted to learn theory. She wanted to play.

After a few lessons filled with theory books and empty of music, the girl quit and never looked back. If she couldn’t play and be happy, then she didn’t want to play piano.

That was three years ago.

The piano looks hollow now. The girl passes it by, time after time. Sometimes, she’ll sit down on the bench and flip open an old book, but right before she starts to try to press a key, her hands will seize up; her heart will stop; her mind will pause, because she’ll see a note—

Practice this slower. Keep hands curved. Don’t play the whole thing all the way through, it just wastes time.

—and she breaks. She sits there, on the bench, for a while, but eventually, without playing, she will stand and leave. For it is hard to play without joy.

But not impossible.

One day, she sits down again. One day, she opens her music again. One day, her life stops again.

But on this day, she grabs a pencil. She erases his notes. Burnt and broken, she plays her C scales. Then her Ds. Then her Es, Fs, Gs, As, and Bs. Her fingers fly across the keys, but not quite dancing, not yet.

She flips to a fresh page in her music book, one without any notes, and stares down The Entertainer by Scott Joplin. Her teacher always told her that she had to wait to play this song. That she didn’t have the skills yet. But she doesn’t care anymore.

All she wants is to play. And that’s what she does. But then she stops. She stops whenever she wants, and she plays whenever she wants, because she is free.

These days, you can find me on my piano bench most afternoons, but never Fridays. Fridays are my mourning day. I mourn the curious young girl with the sunshine smile, killed by theory. I think I’m finding her though. I can see her, I swear. Sometimes, when I play, and I mean truly play, I see her sitting next to me in her favorite striped shirt and tangled hair. I see her smile. I see her fingers dancing with mine, before technicality ever killed curiosity. Before being right ever came above being happy. Before I forgot how to play.