My son first took guitar lessons from Bo Flasschoen when Patrick was 8 or 9.  The lessons ended a few months later, and the guitar lay idle.

During Patrick’s high school days, I came home one day to the sound of guitar-playing from the upstairs.  I poked my head into the stairwell and called to Patrick, asking what CD he had been playing. Came the quiet response:  That wasn’t a CD, it was me.  Really.

His move to college required the transport of several guitars and two amplifiers.  He has continued with music ever since, but in other states, other homes, for other ears.

Tonight he casually opened the piano and sat down to play.  I moved about the place starting a load of laundry, doing dishes, getting myself ready for tomorrow’s workday.  His notes followed me.

Someone told me today that I was fortunate to be able to smile with ease.  I’m blessed, I replied.  Blessed that I have so many things to inspire my smiles.

Among my blessings, I count highly this gift of music, flowing from the hands of my twenty-four-year-old son, on a piano which once belonged to my dear Mother-in-Law Joanna — or maybe to her twin? I’ve never been sure; but I’m glad to have it — even though it’s only played when Patrick comes to town.  A simple pleasure, but one about which I find myself glowing with joy.

No complaints here.  Life continues.