Années de Pèlerinage

for m. s.

I’d only ever heard of him from your stories.
When I found out (third-hand knowledge, months late
and just as raw) I grieved; played some Mozart, tripped
through some Liszt; I listened to Lazar Berman’s
Années de Pèlerinage all the way through. You told me
about his recording of the K. 284 sonata, how he
approached its variations: at first devoutly classical,
but romantic and unrestrained during the repeat.
You called him an inspiration and I wondered if you knew
you were the same. I just read your colleague’s tribute,
turning over every word as if knowing him would be
like knowing you. When you’re ninety-four and dying,
though, I imagine you won’t want to talk. I’ll set my
apple strudel on your doorstep for your children to find
and wonder why the dogs are silent, forgetting that
they’d be gone, too. I’ll imagine that you’re thinking
of him and that it comforts you. I’ll waltz down
that same hill I’ve scaled for years, where the traffic
will sing “Sonetto 104 del Petrarca” if there’s no one
home to play it for you. Maybe I’ll love Berman then.
It’ll be just as you said: the wisdom to love comes from
experience, not imagination. And now I’m brushing
crumbs of strudel off the table and licking stray flakes
of pastry from my lower lip. I hope the dogs are well.
I hope they stay for a long time.