The Gift of Imagination

I'm pretty sure that Rachel, my last student yesterday, is a reincarnation of my sister, who often thought of herself as a player in a grand drama -- and occasionally let us hear the inner monologue that drove the plot.

"What's that noise?" Rachel wanted to know.  As she played, a faint buzzing was emanating from somewhere nearby.  This drives me crazy, but there's not much I can do about it; sometimes the frequency of a certain note reverberates off of one of the objects in the room, such as one of the framed photos I keep on the piano or the cross above the door.  There's not much rhyme or reason as to why it begins and then ceases several hours or days later.  I explained this: "It could be anything," I said.  She wanted to know what.  "The pictures," I said, "Or the poster over there, or it could be something inside the piano itself."

"Or that lamp," she said, pointing to the Espressivo on the end.

"It could be that," I agreed.  "Here, play that last section again."  As she played, I picked up objects one by one until I came to the lamp.  When I lifted it, the buzzing abruptly halted.  I looked at her with new respect and a little surprise.  "You were right!"

She smiled with self-satisfaction and looked down at her lap.  In a quiet voice, she mused, "Detective Rachel."