Dumb Girl.

In the morning hours of the day before Mom died, all three of us were gathered in her apartment along with the night nurse, and, I think, the hospice nurse. Mom had been resting quietly, in that state the nurses told us isn't really sleep, though it sure sounds like it and looks like it. Maybe my sisters will help fill in the details of this precious moment which is already jumbling and fading in my memory. Mom woke and through the monitor we could hear her rustling about. One of the nurses went to check on her, and came back out telling us that she was saying something about music which prompted me to go to her bedside.

That she wanted me to write something on staff paper was the nearest thing I could figure. What, what, what?! She rocked her bejewelled left hand weakly back and forth, as though making a bass fifth ostinato rhythm. She said"F" I asked "In the key of F?" She nodded -so I wrote a B flat in the key signature. She said "it starts on A". She kept the left hand weakly motioning in the ostinato and I wracked my brain. Then suddenly I knew! She wanted to hear the song called "The Spinning Song" by Albert Elmenreich which is in every child's piano book, and which I had learned maybe 45 years ago. I went directly to the piano and played as much of it as I could remember, and when I finished, I went back to Mom's bedroom, and she was calm. The song had been stuck spinning around in her head, and hearing me playing it on the piano let it stop.

So for a while I sat and held her hand and we talked musical nonsense. Just silly stuff about key signatures, and difficult things to do on the piano. Our favorite keys, some favorite songs. I can't remember because it was free flowing gibberish which seemed to calm her and make her happy.

At one point a childhood memory floated to the surface of my own mind and I said something about B Major being my least favorite key (Mom and I both tend to like the flat keys best). I reminded her of the Brahms piano, cello and violin trio (Op. 8 in B Major) that she, my dad and I had struggled with when I was a kid. She slapped both of her hands to her face and shook her head. It made me laugh to see this, because we had both been tortured by Dad's impossible slow tempo.

The Scherzo movement is a wonderful sparkling piece which demands a virtuoso pianist while mostly the cello and violin play islands of melody here and there surrounded by long pedal tones, which, when played at proper speed go by pretty quickly. It was a piece my dad dearly loved and really wanted to learn. But in order for Dad to get any of the piano chords in his hands, he had to slow down to about a tenth what the tempo should be. I have such a clear memory of sitting on my little stool, playing an endless F# while Dad found the next chord, and the next, and the next. This was a torture I endured as a child, because for as frought with musical pain as it was, I liked the IDEA of us all playing together, much as I am sure my parents did. The moment of sharing this unique experience with my mom in her last day still makes me smile. We hadn't ever talked about those sessions. But even after all these years, she got it. She knew EXACTLY what I meant and why I hate B Major!

As we talked along- talking being a loftier term than the mumbled and random things we both said deserve- she mentioned that Lee had always had a nice voice. I think Lee was in the room at the moment and we wondered if Mom would like to hear Lee sing. Mom indicated that she would like this, and so we set out to find the art songs book Lee had bought last summer on a visit. At that time, she had sung while Mom accompanied her on piano, and I am sure this was a huge delight to her.

We hunted high and low in her 400 square foot apartment. I went through all the sheet music she had left, which wasn't much. I could not find the book. I was looking for a yellow Schirmer Edition, as familiar a book cover as ever there was. Nowhere was it to be found.

It was crazy to think to ask Mom where it was, in her state. But I did, and she insisted it was on the piano. The only thing on the piano was a green book, some green piano book. I said the book we were looking for was yellow. Imagine this: an argument with your dieing mother about the color of a music book! We gave up the hunt, and I sat with Mom. She said "the book WAS green, IS green and ALWAYS WILL BE green! Dumb girl!" Her hands slapped limply into her lap in exasperation as she said this. One might think I would be going to my own grave wounded by my mother's (almost) dieing words. But quite the contrary. The resignation with which she pronounced upon my intelligence cheered me up and gave us all a laugh. We never did find the yellow book. And Lee didn't sing. That's the sad part.