She tells me about her day. I listen and try to encourage her. I wish I could fix it, but I can’t. She stomps down the steps and slams the door.
Madison plops her backpack onto the kitchen table. She finds her spelling words and a sheet of scratch paper. Half-way through her spelling list I hear the faint plunking of piano keys coming from the basement. Taylor is practicing.
Emily joins us at the table with a couple of thick textbooks. As both girls work on their homework, a slow, solemn melody echoes through the house.
Madison and I chat about an upcoming field trip and she hands me a permission slip. The piano music has become more lively and up-beat.
In a few minutes the music stops. Taylor slips by us, grabbing her backpack off the floor.
And she’s humming.
I smile, thinking back a few decades ago … back when I stomped up the steps in our old farmhouse and slammed my bedroom door. I remember shoving my arm under my mattress, fishing for my diary. Then I’d stretch out on my bed and start scribbling away. I didn’t know what to do with my emotions, so I poured them into my writing.
Everyone needs a place to get away from the stresses of life, if only for a little while. Everyone needs to find their own escape.
I’m thankful Taylor has found hers.