The orange juice was extra delicious that morning, fresh-squeezed sunbeams in a glass; the pulpy sweet-tart nectar welcomed a day I’d been waiting for forever.  When you’re six, anything over one day is forever, especially when you’re waiting for something amazing.

Breakfasts in Brazil are simple affairs; abundant, but simple. Slices of fresh papaya and mango accompany a spread of French baguettes and assorted deli meats and cheeses, guava paste, farmers cheese and coffee.  This day’s breakfast was no different, except it was: different in deliciousness and in how it fueled us up for the day. We ate, my parents and I, and with full bellies and excited hearts set off on our quest.

We left the busy city of Belo Horizonte and headed for the rolling hills and cobbled streets of historic Sabará. My parents had seen the ad in the paper and knew they had to jump on it. There were no violin teachers in the area where we lived, nor in the surrounding towns. Instead there were piano teachers.

A week before this magical day, I had heard Bach’s Prelude in C Major on the radio and I was transformed. The music called to me; gripped me in my soul and wouldn’t turn me loose. I’d find myself getting tatted on in school for humming it, daydreamed about the music.

It enraptured me, enchanted me, and hypnotized me into a kind of captivity to the song. My aunt had helped me learn “Swans on the Lake,” and I carried that some with me; my wild card in a bag of party which at that point consisted only of several jokes and a few outlandish stories.

But this, THIS could revolutionize my little life. I needed this song, needed to learn it. When my parents asked if instead of violin lessons which I’d longed for… forever, I would be interested in learning piano, the obvious and enthusiastic answer, was “yes!”

We arrived at a beautiful house, where the family who was preparing to move was waiting, expecting us. They welcomed us in, especially me, treating me like one of the grown ups. I was shown to a room housing the most beautiful piano I’d ever seen. I stood and stared, transfixed.

“Do you like it?” my mom asked. “Yes,” I whispered.

An grandfatherly man looked down at me, ” why don’t you play it, judt to make sure.” I sat down at the bench lengthening my spine to straighten my back as much as I could, and began to play “Swans on the Lake.” Those swans “glided under the willows” like never before, soaring on crisp notes piercing the cool, country air. Disappointingly, the piano wouldn’t be mine, truly at-my-home mine until a few days later. Forever away. 

I would wait (im) patiently for it and I, to finally be home. 

“I knew from the day I met you that you would need a piano,” my mom said as we drove away. When you were itty bitty, I took your fingers in mine and I said ‘those are piano fingers.'” I smiled and watched the rolling hills and cobbled streets disappear into the distance. As we drove into the setting sun, as if on some magical cue, the radio began to play a soul -reaching rendition of Bach’s Prelude in C and Ave Maria.