I feel guilty.

When I was little, my mom had a piano in our  basement. She had it tuned every year and let us play it.

I once heard her play it. I could not believe my ears. She played so well and we had no idea that she possessed this hidden talent. She was pressured into playing one time when my grandmother was over visiting. My grandma later told me that she had bought it second-hand from the local banker in town, when my mom was little.

My mom only played it that one time for us. I don’t think she ever played it again after that.

I never questioned that until today. If she had such great skill, why did she never play for the pure joy of it?

The dark, chestnut brown wood of the piano was cracked and I assumed that’s what pianos looked like. It was a Heinzman upright with a matching bench. It had a unique sound that I came to love when I compared it to other piano sounds. By all accounts it was a great, solid piano. I don’t know much more about it, sadly.

When we were younger, we would play the piano, press our feet on the pedals to make the sound last longer, and get the other one to lift the front cover to see the interior functioning of it. I admit with great shame, that when I was younger than 9, I snapped the end off one of the keys and then tried to repeat the damage. Ah, kids! My mother was obviously disappointed, but not overly mad. She was pretty easy going, but perhaps that key was made of ivory, and replacing that one would only happen if you replaced them all with a synthetic material.

After my mom died, my dad paid for the piano to be moved into our new home, next to an interior wall because he wanted to keep it in mint condition, as much as possible.  Maybe he remembers my mom playing it and wanted to respect the memory, I don’t know.

He signed us up for lessons and we were forced to practice weekly, begrudgingly. My sister gave it up after one year, and me after two. I wanted to be good at playing the piano because my mom was, but as much as I tried, I could not get the hang of it.

I tried to learn again in my early twenties from a lady across town that had an even older piano with real ivory keys. I was no good. The years of pretending I could read notes had caght up to me and I spent more time banging my head against the keys than actually playing. I felt like the angry muppet on Sesame Street who banged his head on the piano all the time.

When we moved out, I could not move my mom’s piano into my small apartment, so I paid to have it moved to storage. I always assumed I would have a big house and move my mom’s piano there.

When the movers came to take it, they told me I needed to have the cracked wood refinished to show it in all it’s glory. It would cost a few thousand dollars, so I put it in my “when I have a real job and real home” file in my mind.

When I eventually had a real home, I had been paying for temperature-controlled storage for about 10 years, which could have goone towards refinishing it.

There was only one room in our home where my mom’s piano would fit. I didn’t play it. Looking at it brought so much guilt into my heart. I should cherish the piano the way my mom did. I considered forcing my kids to take lessons, but then the entire family room would have to be styled around a piano that they may, or may not want to learn. It wasn’t a small piano, either. Heavier than most pianos, too.

I made a hard decision, filled and consumed by guilt.

I donated it.

I found a guy on Kijiji who refinished them and sold them for profit. I made the arrangements for him to retrieve our beloved piano. It was now his to do what he wanted. (and his burden and responsibility, now) I hoped that one day I would have a need for a piano and could find him and buy it off him. But the days moved on and my priorities changed.

And then today I thought about my mom’s reaction to the broken piano keys and realized that maybe she kept the piano; not because she loved playing, but she felt too guilty getting rid of it. Perhaps it meant more to my grandmother than it did to my mom. If the piano was so sacred to my mom, why wasn’t she more upset about the keys and the state of the finish?

Guilt, I think.

The piano is just one, heavy large item I have felt guilt over.

My mom’s fur coat was another thing. Her petite frame ensured that the sleeves of her fur coat only reached my elbows. It would be impractical to keep something that I cannot use. I donated that, too. And yes, I felt guilty, knowing it was expensive. It’s difficult to donate things that belonged to someone I love, who is not here now.

Would my mom want me to feel guilty? Probably not.

Do I want my kids to feel guilty if they donate my things? No. They’re just things.

Maybe somewhere in heaven, my mother is playing a piano, just because it makes her heart happy, and not guilty.

Do you have guilt about getting rid of something, (donating, giving, throwing out, etc) that belonged to someone you love, who has died? I am always curious how others deal with this sort of thing. Do you happily donate it and feel no guilt, or does the guilt eat away at you for decades like it did for me?