Where’s the rest of that schnapps? Bending down to pick up the waste paper basket Paul had knocked over I felt the age in my wrist as I reached out, only to pull away at the last minute, seeing the crumpled picture that lay on the floor. I slumped, instead, into my easy chair and poured myself a drink.

                  He does not understand. He does not understand Chopin. He does not understand very much at all. He is ignorant of the world, or life, of humanity, of beauty, horror and pain. He does not even try to understand.

But then, he cannot understand.  He cannot know. And how can he try to understand when he cannot achieve what he attempts? What is the difference between someone who understands, and one who does not? Very, very much.

Perhaps there I have made my error. Perhaps I expected too much of Paul, far too soon. Perhaps I expected too much of myself. It has been so long since I have had a friend, a son, a childhood. What do I know of youth? My eyes fell on the crinkled face of the small boy smiling out of the old photograph. There is so very, very much between my understanding of that time and my understanding of the world. Perhaps, you cannot know both. Perhaps childhood and the world just simply cannot coexist?

It is not for no reason that I treat him so harshly. He ought to learn now, rather than waste his time learning forever. Why repeat the mistakes of others? Why forge out a path of one’s own when there is a quicker, safer route to the same destination? Why not push out in front instead of lagging behind with the vast majority? Why waste time with childish dreams when there is a real world, a beautiful world, a world that is too big for one lifetime, waiting to be explored? For him to waste his life would be…

It is not my duty to take care of such things. I am but his piano teacher. I will not – I cannot – lie to him! But I will wait, I will hold myself, until he asks. Only when he wants to learn, will I try to help him understand.