The warm, savory aromas of the kitchen envelop the house like a blanket. The beeping timers warn that the sweet potato casserole is finished, the ham and turkey cooked, and the homemade rolls are done. The whole clan is finally gathered together for our annual “Christmas in Memphis.” Due to our far away locations across the country, the holidays are the only time of the year everyone in the family can make it to my grandparents’ home in Memphis, TN. Affectionately called Granny and Pawpaw, my grandparents have hosted our family during the holidays for as long as I can remember. We even have family videos of me before the age of one resting on my grandpa’s knees, watching him open Christmas presents along with the rest of the family. As I sprint down the stairs in anticipation of Christmas dinner, a soft and sweet melody reaches my ears like many times before. Bypassing the kitchen, I make my way into the living room. A fire is crackling in the fireplace lined with stockings, and garland hangs from the ginormous bookcases that run along the walls. The tree is lit and fully decorated with its customary lights and glittering ornaments. “Come look over here and see Sarah,” I hear my grandpa say. Walking over to the massive black piano behind the couches, I find the source of the music and my grandpa marking in a new book of Christmas carols. “Listen to this new song I have,” Pawpaw says excitedly. I park myself on the worn wooden bench beside my grandpa. At seven years old, I’m still small enough to sit by him. I listen intently as I watch my grandpa’s long spindly fingers move up and down the piano. Like the countless times before now, I am completely transfixed as he plays a beautiful rendition of “Silent Night.” He sings out in a clear and powerful tenor, his voice rising and falling with the music. I watch his hands fly across the keys as he picks up the tempo into “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” amazed that the same hands that can perform tasking carpentry work possess the ability to make such beautiful music. Granny of course comes in scolding us for not preparing our plates for dinner, and we obediently make our way into the kitchen with the rest of the family.

My grandparents’ house has always been a safe haven for me. It is one of the few places where I can truly be myself. Away from the judging eyes of my classmates, the expectations of society, and my own personal struggles and worries, I can relax and unwind. The piano in the living room has always been the central feature of the house to me. I can’t even begin to count the numerous times I’ve sat side-by-side with my grandpa listening to him sing and play hymns, showtunes, and carols. Every night after supper, hearing him play puts my heart at rest and my mind at ease. Being the daughter of a man in the United States Navy is hard, and I haven’t had the usual childhood and school career most have. The longest I’ve ever lived in one place is three years, and I’ve attended six schools and lived in seven different locations. I’ve never had a place to truly call home. Whenever people ask me where I’m from, I have no idea what to tell them. However, the one place that’s always been there for me is my grandparents’ house. No matter how many times we move, my grandparents are always there to welcome us home, and my grandpa is always glad to show me the newest song he’s learned on his old piano.

“Come look over here Sarah, I think I have one you’ll like,” I once again hear my grandpa say. The year is now 2012, and I am a sophomore in high school. Christmas time has come around again, and the family is gathered for another year of festivities and celebration. “Alright Pawpaw, what do you have for me?” I inquire. “Come be my page-turner and you’ll find out,” he replies. My grandpa is no longer the only one in our family musically inclined. I thankfully seem to have inherited his musical skills. I now proficiently play the flute and clarinet, and after six years of learning musical theory, my grandpa expects me to follow along as he plays and act as his page turner. This simple task I gladly do. As I grab ahold of the page in his hymnal, ready to flip as he reaches the last measure on the page, the music of the archaic piano fills the house on Timmons Avenue for yet another Christmas night. The tree is lit, the stockings are hung, and although the fire no longer crackles due to the installation of gas logs, warmth still radiates from the fireplace. I haven’t been able to fit beside my grandpa on the bench for several years now, so I instead stand beside him and sing along. His fingers, while they still zip up and down the keys of the piano, are more gnarled than I remember. His voice, while still beautiful, has lost some of the power and clarity it once had. My grandpa now has a hard time learning new songs because dementia, which unfortunately plagues our family like locust, is beginning to show its early stages. I plan on learning how to play piano sometime soon, because I fear that one day it will have to be my long fingers-another thing I inherited from him-pounding out the melodies at Christmas. Now that I have been involved with more music and have better trained my ears, I know that the piano is horribly out of tune. The piano is so old though, retuning it would endanger the delicate inner workings of the instrument. Yet the music that comes from those chipped, yellowing keys is the most beautiful music of all in my mind. It is the music of my childhood, and the sagging bench of that old piano is where a love of music was first instilled in my heart.