When I was young, my father used to play the piano. He didn't know how to read music, and it was all chords. If you didn't listen closely you would think it was the same song over and over again. But after hearing it for years, I realized it was just the base for his real music. During the holidays, you would hear classic holiday tunes float gently through the sound. Like he was using his music to seek out and play what was in context.
When his mother died, it got dark. More bass, harder on the keys, mournful and sad. It was reassuring to hear my father grieving in some way, as he didn't express his emotions often.
We were stupid kids. We would be wanting to watch TV, so we had to hold huge headphones close to our ears with the volume turned up. It was loud enough that the vacuum was less annoying. And we took it for granted.
Nobody learned how to play like he did, as unique as every person. Nobody recorded even a sample of it. The house has been sold long ago. My father died decades ago. I now play music and think of what we have lost. But I can still feel the passion, the joy, the whimsey in his music. It's in my head like an unfocused picture. I can't see the details but it can still remind me of how much I now love his playing.
