I remember piano lessons long ago. I remember my mom driving me to this fancy house a town or two over. I remember the immaculate lawns. I remember the two-story windows in the living room where my teacher’s grand piano sat.
I remember sitting head to shoulder to my teacher, looking up at her face. Her genuine smile greeting me each week.
“How are you?”
Like clockwork I’d dribble out the same meek “Fine.”
One week, exasperated, she exclaimed, “You can’t always be just fine!”
My mind exploded, but my mouth stayed shut. “Okay, all right, how am I? Well, that’s a tough question. Do you really want to know? Will you remain my piano teacher? Or are you prepared to become my savior? How about I just give you a quick rundown of my most recent suicidal thoughts…”
She clearly wasn’t able to see that fine was an aspirational goal for me at that point.
I wanted to be fine. For that hour, just let me be fine!