Goddaughter

- Intermezzo -

'Her mom says it might be time,' my wife said.

'That's not for me to decide,' I said.

• • •

Even as a baby, she was always smiling and laughing. So when you held her in your arms, it felt like you could hold her forever.

When she was a little older, I remember one of the first times we came over to visit with Kasper. She was giggling at first, but once I put him down she panicked. She crawled away as fast as she could, but even if there was an endless field she would have never gotten away. It took just a second for Kasper to catch up and lick her face clean.

Two years ago, she drew me a beautiful portrait of him. On a condolence card she handed to me, shortly after he passed away.

Then there was that time after what was the biggest performance of my life. I had just walked out to the second round of applause, having concluded Prokofiev's first piano concerto. The conductor nudged my attention towards the stage's edge. She was standing there, holding flowers for me while her mother held her in place by her stubby little ankles.

Funny thing is I asked her about it during one of our lessons. She doesn't remember a thing.

Oh well.

Look, I had no intention of teaching her. It all started on a whim. It took a few visits to our place until she even felt comfortable enough to play a single note on our piano.

What was she so scared of? Pianos don't bite.

One thing led to another and suddenly she's playing at our next recital. I put her first on the program, since I knew that waiting would make it even scarier.

One of our agreements was that she not think of me as her godfather during piano time. I think it was entertaining for both of us, like I suddenly developed a split personality.

I was definitely harder on her, she wasn't just a piano student after all. And for the most part she could take it. But there was one time I felt I crossed the line. It was the only time I had ever made anyone cry during a lesson (on purpose, that is) and I felt so bad I resolved to never do that ever again. At the very next lesson I apologized to her.

Funny thing is how surprised she acted, like she had already forgotten it happened.

You don't notice when they grow up, it just hits you all at once. For me, that moment was at the end of one of our regular recitals. She was last in the program. All of a sudden she's one of my best students, performing her music from memory to boot.

Holy crap.

But my favorite times were when she goofed up. I looked forward to teasing her about it afterwards. And I ask myself, when did her skin get so thick?

• • •

If you look at all our photos from the first recital to the last, you'll notice her progressively getting a head taller in each one.

Now we stand head to head.

I don't get to bask in the glory for too long. Homework starts to pile up. After-school activities. She discovers her obsession: theater. She plays one of the leads in Little Women and her mother invites me to watch her. I'm so proud of her. But it also feels like one of the final nails in the coffin. I don't know how to feel about it.

Probably both happy and sad.

One of her biggest roles was Anna in Frozen. Her whole family flew over from Taiwan to see her. She not only acted but sang. The whole nine yards. She had taken extra voice lessons because she wanted it that bad. I had no idea how big of a deal it was, so I declined to go. My wife went though.

I regret not going, but she never talked about how important it was. If she had asked me, there's no doubt I would have gone.

• • •

From time to time, my wife would wonder out loud why she still showed up for piano. She hardly practiced any more. But I honestly didn't care, since it was the only time during the week I saw her.

Her mom also hinted at this one time, right in front of me (she occasionally comes in with her daughter to play with our furballs).

My goddaughter didn't miss a beat, immediately responded with:

'Doggy dopamine.'

• • •

'There's something we should talk about,' her mother says to me as they both step inside.

After we settle down, my goddaughter expresses an interest in a piano competition that's a few months away. I ask her why she wants to do it and she says she feels she should. She adds that she could put it on her college resume and I point out she's already padded it with enough performances. I also tell her I don't really see the point as she barely practices any more (she's always saying how she's too busy and I'm always telling her that's an excuse, that she doesn't make the time). And that free time isn't going to magically spring into existence. Besides, the point of doing a competition isn't exactly to win but you need that type of determination if you're going to enter one.

I stop talking. I see her mother pleading at me with her eyes, I finally notice my goddaughter has been anxiously running her hands up and down the couch the entire time.

We both sit next to her as her eyes turn glossy. So I say what everyone hasn't wanted to. That it's time. No one is to blame. She doesn't need to carry on for my sake. I would never feel disappointed.

She starts to cry. I want to as well but I hold back. I feel like I need to for her sake. Or is it that I don't allow myself?

I've never been good at goodbyes, but as I inevitably lost students over the years it's something I've had to get better at.

But she's not just a student.

I felt that line begin to blur as her practice time began to diminish. I was no longer a teacher and that led us closer to the end. It's not like I want this but I'm doing what's right for the both of us.

I ask her, 'is it that you feel sad that you have to give up something you don't want to? Something you've done for so long?'

She nods while wiping her eyes. She says, 'I've just always enjoyed it so much.'

I don't know if I'm happy or sad to hear this. I decide it's both since I've come to feel these conflicting emotions together more often, the older I've become.

I try to make light of the situation. 'Well, don't worry about it,' I say. 'The first time's the hardest, you'll definitely have plenty more opportunities to get used to it.'

Her mother balks at me and I smile back.

Later that night, my wife wonders if I was too harsh on her. How about letting her do that competition? Maybe I didn't need to say all that.

I agree with her for a few seconds before I change my mind. For one thing, I wouldn't feel right letting her do a competition just because she feels she should. How bad does she want to do it? She hasn't shown me and until she does I remain firm in my decision.

Secondly, I said what I did because it was the truth and that's something she can handle. She's not some delicate snowflake or fragile porcelain doll. She is tougher than she is given credit for.

My goddaughter is going to be all right. She's on her way to becoming a young adult, whether anyone is ready for her to become one or not. Just because she cries, laughs and smiles–just because she is so unbelievably happy-go-lucky and has always been–does not mean she is weak.

I used to want to teach her forever, I used to see her as someone I needed to protect.

I don't see her that way any more.

• • •

I tell her we don't have to decide any time soon, but we'll eventually need to figure out when that final day will be. But it doesn't mean she can't stop by whenever she wants. We are her family. This is her home too. And if she wants a piano lesson on occasion, I can always make time for her.

The air gets lighter. We sit there in silence for a few seconds. I ask her, 'would you like to play with the dogs now?'

'Yes please,' she says.