By Daphne Holley

     I go to piano lessons every Thursday night. My dad drops me off about 5 minutes before it starts and I walk in through the hall, and pass the gym filled with workout equipment and the people in white robes practicing martial arts. I always thought it was weird that a gym and a martial arts institute had correlation, but being in the same building as a music school didn’t make much sense. The music school is only halfway through the hallway, so maybe more music-related rooms wait beyond— or perhaps something more confusing.

     The lobby is filled with parents waiting for their children, some waiting impatiently by the door, checking the time every half-second. Many sit on the couches and chairs, looking at phone screens or magazines. The people are quiet, but the muffled chorus of piano, string instruments, drums, trombones, and more instruments is not. 

     I look around the room, at the same books that have been here for ages, the television that no one bothers to turn on, the dry-erase board with all kinds of drawings and doodles, possibly from children that don’t even attend music lessons anymore. I think about when I’ll stop going here, if I ever do. It doesn’t seem like something that will ever happen. I can’t imagine quitting piano, it’s become such a routine activity and aspect of my life. I look at the walls. I’d never noticed the color before. It’s painted seafoam green with popcorn-like walls. 

     I look at the receptionist. She’s focused intently on something on her laptop, probably sorting through files or emails. It seems like a boring job, to me, at least. Although, at the same time, it sounds nice to see the same familiar faces every week, and hear from people and their adventures.

     I look up to my piano teacher calling my name, and it pulls me from my thoughts. I stand up with my sheet music and go back. I like surprises, but I also appreciate the familiarity.