the raindrop prelude

Every weekday now I am away from my boys and every weeknight I could swear my youngest looks older. In the 12 hours I am gone, Elliott ages, noticeably. I feel the small ache that comes from missing out. I miss out on the silly faces, the nonsensical comments, the lunch menu, the potty successes, the belly laughs, the enthusiastic greeting off the bus and the begging to watch "train show" or go to the park. But I almost never miss out on bedtime.

When I was home most of the day, bedtime was more of an after thought. I'd whiz through a couple books, say a short prayer, put on the music and turn out the light, anxious to head downstairs and have a break.

These days bedtime has a different flavor. I savor the ritual. I look forward to reading and snuggling in bed, to asking Elliott about his day and asking God to fill us with his love. I relish hearing the storybook rhymes, the gentle breathing of a boy drifting off to sleep and the music of the classical lullabies CD we never seem to replace. I especially love the music.

Almost always Elliott falls asleep right before Chopin's Prelude, Op. 28, No.15, fondly known as the raindrop prelude. And because I am laying with him now until he drifts off, I almost always, instead of heading downstairs to get my break, stay snuggled next to my sleeping boy for at least the next 6 1/2 minutes until this piece is over.

Although spending full days away from Elliott reminds me so poignantly how time marches on and how I have no control to stop it, this Chopin Prelude allows me to go backwards in time and hold it still, precious and unchanging.

About fifteen years ago I took piano lessons. I progressed slowly because I've never really had a musical gift and because I never really practiced much. I did, however, dedicate myself to one particular piece - Prelude, Op. 28, No. 15. It was the one and only piece of classical music that I could play (nearly) flawlessly. I was crazy about it. A few weeks before I was to play in a piano recital, my maternal grandmother died. She was one of the most important, loving, creative and stable influences in my life as a child. I adored her.

I don't remember how it happened but somehow, since I missed the piano recital, I ended up playing the Chopin piece at my grandma's memorial service. The memory is vivid: from how I dressed to the intense emotion that made my hands shake and my tears fall on the keys. I have never delivered anything with as much passion or confidence as I played that piece. And every time I hear that Prelude I remember exactly how I felt: full of life and full of grief, full of passion and completely broken, loved and lost.

I am truly surprised I didn't spontaneously combust.

Often now I have a twinge of this same emotion. My baby is growing up and I'm missing it. I am both thrilled and devastated. Loving the changes and mourning the loss. Soon he will be a boy that today's me can barely recognize. My hands shake and my tears fall on the keys at the very thought of it.

But if Chopin has taught me anything, it's that I wouldn't want it any other way. To hold back, to temper our sorrow and our passion, our grief and our love is not living. We're just going through the motions, counting down the hours until we get a break.

I cannot stop my child from aging anymore than I can prevent any of the great losses I am sure I will suffer in my lifetime, whether I am home when they happen or not. I could worry and I could fear. I could just cut my losses and quit. Instead I come home every night and read and pray, snuggle and listen to Chopin, remembering that letting go and playing with everything I've got won't stop time but it will make the time I have rich and beautiful and worth remembering.