ello, jello

Not the first one, but the second one. The first few years with her were fun. She’d put smiley face stickers on my music sheets and give me “jazzy” versions of obscure pop songs for recitals that she’d write out all of the fingering for. I’d walk out the door with a handful of Werther’s Originals and coast on my bike all the way down to my house. It was all too easy. By the time the end came around, I was one of the oldest in her studio. And then my hands quit working in middle school. I was in a cast for months, so our lessons turned into listening sessions. I’d sit in her living room with her while we listened to old jazz LP’s and that’s when I started noticing. She had cinder blocks for furniture. Actual cinder blocks with pieces of ply wood for a bookcase. Another one just for the record player. In between tracks she’d tell me pieces about her life. Her family in France. Her college years in the Bay Area. Her first husband. Her second husband. I almost never saw the third and (at that time) current one.