“Hm, yeah, well I’m, hm, I’m a piano man, that’s right.”
This was how he replied when I asked him what his name was. I don’t think he remembered his real name; age and Alzheimer’s had washed that away. He knew himself as “Piano Man” and that was his name. I’d ask him why he was a piano man, and he’d frown sadly, saying “Well, hm, see, I used to play piano, hm, long time ago, yeah.”
“Why don’t you play us something, Piano Man?”
He’d shake his head and reply “Can’t do that, no, hm, haven’t got a piano, no, can’t do that.”
I’d gesture to the small keyboard in the corner and tell him “Sure you can, see?”
“Hm, no, don’t have a real piano, need a real piano to play piano, hm.”
The senior’s home across the way had a piano, and it was only cruel chance that my Piano Man got stuck in this one instead. That piano was real, brown wood and ivory keys, an old Steinway that some well-meaning person had donated to the wrong place. It never got played. And while it sat, gathering dust, Piano Man sat staring at the little keyboard in the corner, never playing it.
I had to introduce myself every day. See, he could remember that he once played piano, but his brain had forgotten how to remember anything else. He’d forgotten his family, and his name, and ever day he forgot me. So every day I’d tell him my name, and he’d reply “Hm, yeah, well I’m, hm, I’m a piano man, that’s right.” I’d ask him why he was a piano man, and he’d frown sadly, saying “Well, hm, see, I used to play piano, hm, long time ago, yeah.”

So one day I took Piano Man’s hand and I told him, “Let’s go for a walk, okay?” and he followed me, because he didn’t know that he wasn’t allowed to leave the facility, and I didn’t really care much for rules. We walked carefully across the road, up to the other care home. We walked right through those big double doors and then we stopped. And I turned to him and said “Hey, I found you a piano.”
Piano Man sat down in front of his instrument and stayed there, still, for a long moment. He stared at that piano like it was a long lost friend. He stared at it for so long I was almost afraid that he’d forgotten how to play it. But then he put finger to ivory, and all my worries were assuaged.

Somehow, it didn’t matter that he hadn’t played for years. His mind had forgotten his home and his name, but somehow he remembered Beethoven’s sonatas, Rachmaninoff’s concertos, Chopin’s preludes. I’d like to believe that long ago, he had been a concert pianist, because he played that old grand like it was the last piano on earth and the sky might fall in on him at any moment. Age, thought, memory didn’t matter, the only thing that mattered was hammers hitting strings in a pattern of notes that ran through his head.

And I thought, this is why music was invented.