by Rita Klundt

I’m stuck in a relationship. And it’s not healthy. It’s like there is this “thing” in my living room just taking up space, and keeping me from moving on. I’m living well, but it’s so bad between us that if there’s music in the room when the two of us are together, all I hear are the groans and squawks of something that annoys me. It’s holding me back.

In the morning when I wake, I’m determined to give the relationship some attention. After all, part of the problem is me. Always has been. Yet, if I did absolutely everything right, it’s undeniable, we still aren’t meant for great things.

I promise at least fifteen minutes of total devotion to what seems to be an inanimate object. But that seldom happens. Something or someone else is always more important. There’s a dishwasher to load, laundry, shopping to do and junk mail to shred.

Lunchtime comes, and I’d rather be entertained by the mid-day news or eat in silence.

Afternoons, my most productive hours, are for accomplishing goals and working with my keyboard to secure my future as a writer. I can’t be chasing after long-gone dreams. I need to lean into my strengths, so I close myself off in an office. When it’s time to stretch and take a break, I glance into the living room and see how neglect is leaving me stuck and remorseful, but I’m not motivated. I’d rather sit on my front porch alone, and watch birds.

Most of my workdays are long because stepping away from my desk in the middle of a paragraph is hard for me. I know much of it will be edited away the next day, but I put words on a page, enjoy them for a while, and then delete.

Maybe that’s what needs to happen to this relationship. The beginning was a thrill. I ran with it. And now it’s time to delete. Fatigue overtakes my evenings, and the determination I had in the morning is gone. It’s too late for caffeine. Maybe tomorrow.

I considered a trip to Virginia to reconnect with the “one that got away.” That was no fling. We lasted over twenty years, and parted as friends. I had no illusions then of anything magical. Both of us were flawed, but we were comfortable and had a chemistry. We were forgiving. Our fights never lasted long. And when I wanted to be angry, depressed or wallow in any negative emotion, I could sit and pour it all out without judgement or reprimand. I deserve a relationship like that.

We said goodbye more than fifteen years ago, yet if I close my eyes, I can still hear the words and the melody of our last song. Then I remember why it ended. I was the one to move on. I was the one to let go. No tears, and the regret was momentary.

We’ve both aged, and time has its way of distorting the past. I know I’d be disappointed with what I’d see today. I ponder a while, enjoying the vision and essence of what used to be. If ever I am in Virginia…

Like a lot of women, I watch as the good life drifts away, and long for something new. I’d rather leave the old behind, move across town and live in a tiny house, than clean up my sprawling mansion; if that’s what it takes to get unstuck. I hint of my dissatisfaction to friends, hoping they will know someone who knows someone. I’ve shopped around, in churches and bars, looking for something different. I think I’ve found it, but I count the cost, and it doesn’t seem worth it. I scroll down my phone and see opportunity. Hey! There’s one in Virginia!

Am I weak and afraid, or wise and playing it safe? I stay stuck.

Weeks turn into months, and months have turned into years. I can’t remember when we turned from honeymooning toward blasé. I don’t know what to do. I tell myself the curb is an option. “Always an option.” I talk with friends and they agree.

“Have you thought about placing an ad?”

We laugh about lighting and angles for the photograph. There is no best side to display! “Be sure to include the statement ‘as is’ and mention that you’ll cover the cost of moving,” a friend suggests. It sounds so tempting. We enjoy a good laugh.

“But what happens at that first in person meeting? I can’t do that to an innocent stranger.”

So I do nothing.

I found a letter the other day, written and dated a few months after we’d been together. The words made me cry. You see, I’m not the only one that feels “stuck” in this relationship. The feeling has been mutual.

If you haven’t figured out by now, this story is not about the relationship between me and my husband. We’re happy and intent on sticking together. This is about the baby grand piano that takes up space in my living room. When one of my sisters (the talented pianist of the family) needed to make room for a new piano, my husband and I agreed to move her old and somewhat abused baby grand out of her way. It traveled by trailer all the way from Louisville, Kentucky to our home in Pekin, Illinois. Before that, it had been in a fine and fancy home, but hadn’t been played in years. My sister Rhonda, no doubt, had been the love of its life.

And then there was me. I play, but for my ears only. And I don’t practice like I should. The groans and squawks that annoy me when I play are mostly me, and only partly because my sister’s old piano is damaged and can’t be brought into tune. It’s sad.

I used to have a piano, one that I loved, and it really is in Virginia. I wish I had it back sometimes, but I’m afraid it’s not the piano it used to be. My dilemma: How do I separate from this huge but “baby” grand? If it goes to the curb, it would have to be in pieces. I can’t do that. And, do I invest in a new piano when I haven’t practiced or appreciated the old one?

Isn’t that a common dilemma, with things and with people?

I hate to leave you with such a sad thought, although I believe a little pondering is good for the soul and for our mental health. We move our affection too quickly, don’t you think?

In 2013, a few months after Rhonda’s old piano became mine and after not playing in years, I had a particularly awful practice session. I wrote the following poem as if a piano could feel, think and talk. It’s written from the perspective of that old baby grand. This would be the “letter” I found the other day:

January 22, 2013

Lament of the Baby Grand

Dear Rhonda, I’m in quite a slump.

Out your door. Yes, I felt that huge bump.

I was stolen away by a gal who can’t play.

Send a plane or a train. I will jump!

She has polished my wood and my metal.

The man, he attached my three pedals.

She’s like rust on my strings. Help me Lord when she sings.

I am suffering more than I’m able.

Yes, I know that my ivory is old.

But to give me away? That was cold.

I’ve a lot yet to give, so please let me live.

I have value, or so I’ve been told.

Could you not find a church or a school?

Is there some kind of unwritten rule?

She’s your sister, I know. Why did I have to go?

Fam’ly first. What am I? That was cruel.

The tuner is coming this week.

I do hope he’ll fix my small squeak.

I’ll sound fine and dandy.  I’m still sweet eye candy.

I hope he’s not some sort of creep.

She tells me that you have another,

Not my daddy, full grand. Not my brother.

I hear she’s so sweet, quite cute and petite.

Have her keyboard!  Enjoy one another!

As for me in my terrible state,

I suppose I’ve no choice but to wait,

For a visit from you.  An old song will do.

Make it soon – before it’s too late.

Words by Packard Baby Grand

Penned by Rita Klundt

Music by (Not Gonna Happen)

Rhonda visits from time to time. I recall that first reunion between her and her piano. My sister’s eyes went straight to her ex-partner and friend. I think I heard the piano calling her to come sit and play a while. She did, and everyone in the house was drawn into my living room. The piano needed tuning, but it didn’t matter. We sang along.

Piano for sale. Any offer to remove will be accepted. I’ve got my eyes on a sleek new upright.