The Keys of Minor Cruelty

A lesson with Miss Nelson

She lived alone with her black and white Persian cat, who freely shed ebony and ivory, while I locked fingers with the piano keys.

Once a week, Miss Nelson and I sat together on the cross-stitched roses of her piano stool. I was an anxious five-year-old with no empathy for musical instruments. If she was ever irritated with me, she never let it show.

During the first few lessons I sat on the edge of the stool and Miss Nelson spoke the foreign language of kindness. After a while, I relaxed enough to enjoy the warmth of her soft hip beside mine.

A few years later, after we moved to another town, my mother sent me to spend the school holidays with her. One summer evening, as we were doing dishes in her small kitchen, she noticed a blow fly buzzing against the window pane. Without a word, she trapped it with one hand. Then, with the fly locked in her fist, she used her opposite finger and thumb to reach into her palm.

Pausing, she made sure I was paying attention. “This is what I like to do with them.” And with nimble fingers, she plucked out one wing, then another.

Amputated wings fluttering behind her, she rolled the fly like dice, crippled but alive, back onto the window sill. The following morning, having buzzed through a flightless death spiral, it lay lifeless on the sill.

I had never seen her play in the minor key of cruelty before.

And now, this moment keeps buzzing against the window of my soft focus memories. Was this how she plucked the wings from her own darkness? She had the small might to strike a dark note.

And still, she chose to play the lighter notes of kindness, sitting beside me.

So all I know now, is I still can’t make sense of the tune.