For Him - Shawn Mendes

APART

BENJAMIN MENDES

The first time I ever laid fingers on a piano was on my eighth birthday. Dressed in a red hand-knit sweater that draped down to my knees, Grandma drove me to her apartment. It was small, a light shade of blue with white trimmings. Clad with pale wood, on summer days it would blend beautifully into the cloudless sky. It stood proudly above her famous bakery established a year after I was born, known internationally for its trademark muffins. The apartment was always flooded with light, windows of every shape and size dotted immethodically across the walls. When I was really young, I would trace my fingers around the edges, learning the names of the shapes, finding patterns in the glass.

Grandma pushed open the front door, where I expected she'd have a tray of assorted muffins laid out on the table, as she did every Sunday – perhaps even my favourite flavour, Lost, as it was my birthday. Or maybe Ruin, the delicious mixture of coconut and lime becoming my go-to morning muffin. But instead, she took my hand, told me to close my eyes and led me to the spare bedroom. I obliged, eventually opening them to reveal a grand piano. It was white, polished, with a yellow bow placed delicately on the keys. Perched on top of the piano was a box- a white chocolate and vanilla muffin wrapped neatly in a white bow. Beside that was a letter.

Dear Benjamin,

Allow the rhythm of your fingers to be your escape in this world. Allow chords to consume you and sound to fill your ears with waves of pure bliss. Remember these feelings, let them carry you from darkness.

Happy 8th birthday, love.

-Your favourite Gma

I stared at the piano in awe. Its size intimidated me, the keys radiating power and a sense of adventure- something I'd seen before but never tried for myself. Pianos were expensive.

And I hugged her, my lanky arms wrapping quickly and tightly around her, a giddy smile plastered to my face as I leapt in the air. I bounded toward the piano, plonked myself on the seat before pausing; hands mid-air, breath half hitched as my fingers hovered nervously above the keys. I had no idea what to do with them.

"Try this," She smiled, perching beside me, placing my fingers on the F, A and C keys. "Now play them together," she added watching as I held the keys down with my inexperienced fingers. I remember the surprise as a deep vibration ran through the tips of my fingers and down my arm. It brought a rush, and the sudden need to do it again. So I did, I grinned up at Grandma and played the chord again. And again. And again.

I think about that day as I crane my neck, stepping on the tips of my toes as I peek across the back of the stage to catch a glimpse of the view behind the curtain. Even with my glasses pushed to the bridge of my nose, I can't see where the ocean of people ends. They're calling my name, a colourful haze of muffled chants as they hold up signs with pianos on them; and it takes me a moment to realise I should be out there. But my feet seem glued to the floor, my heartbeat is unhealthily out of rhythm and I'm thinking that perhaps this just isn't for me.

I think about my parents, standing with grins accessorising their faces, front-row-centre. Beside them is my Aunt Karen. I think about my music teacher back at school, 12 years of piano lessons and 12 years of dreams. I think about all of my friends dotted in the crowd, my buddies from school, and make eye contact with the girl in my chem lecture at uni that I mustered the guts to invite along. I find it hard to draw our eyes apart. 

I think about the endless stream of record labels and managers that threw themselves at me. Mendes was all they heard. They saw the famous last name and suddenly their eyes lit up with money signs. I think about the feeling of self-accomplishment over denying them.