The Music Lives On

I used to wake up every morning to my grandfather's odd habit of playing Chopin nocturnes after his early breakfast and before his morning house calls. Sometimes it would be Mozart, rarely Beethoven; on one memorable occasion, I heard Moonlight at sunrise.

Tonight I am listening to some of those pieces performed by my brother-in-law on an old and warped piano. But the music still sounds lovely, and my grandfather's memory lives on in that music.

I am sure that the music has kept the memories and lives of many of its players fresh. Not that long ago, I heard the music played by hands long dead but preserved in the plastic medium of vinyl grooves.

The music lives on, and those who play live on as well with it.