OVERTURE

There are a ton of love stories out there, the generic boy meets girl, they fall in love, but then something happens plot has been overused so many times all of us have experienced it at least once in our lives. I have. However, this isn't about my boy meets girl story, this is about a piano, a Steinway to be exact, my crazy father, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Well, part of it is, we'll get to the juicy boy meets girl crap, but before boy meets girl, boy meets piano, and boy falls in love with the sounds it makes. Boy learns from the best pianist in the world, boy succeeds and then father dies. It's all horribly generic, and if you're honestly interested it's all over the Internet. S.V Sinclair made his appearance in the early eighties, they called him a "modernist composer" because his compositions became about Mozart-famous after the prime time for classical music. He always used to joke around that he was born in the wrong era, but he wasn't, he was born in the sixties, raised with Chopin and Liszt, and Beethoven, and Tchaikovsky. I was by all means a pretty average kid, born February twelfth, looking just like Sylvester did, along with my older-by-ten-freaking­-minutes brother Insley, who practically looked just like my mother. We both got his eyes, and her nose, but I got something that he hadn't gotten, that ear for music Sylvester Vincenzo Sinclair had. My eldest brother Sage, was twelve years our senior, and had already practically developed fully, he was a star athlete, could run and swim miles, and Insley – even at one – had loads of personality. I remember my mother telling the story over and over again, the notorious tale. It was a pretty normal night, my father had just finished playing his piece for the night, and my mother was sitting on the couch, doing a crossword puzzle. She looked to my father and asked for a nine letter word that meant "famous, but in a bad way" at this Insley perked up, from reading the Oxford English Dictionary like a scholar, and said, "notowious." My genius of a brother could read before he could speak, and that night my father raised him up to the ceiling, bumped his head on it, and then laughed about his phenomenal son, while the other twin sat on the ground, banging away on a cheap toy piano his father had gotten him. I was by all accounts an average child, until we went to Italy the summer of Insley and I's first birthday. We'd never left England, so obviously I had my face squished up against the glass, drool pooling on my father's lap, while he hummed some or other symphony. I fell asleep halfway through the plane ride, to my father's Walkman and Chopin's Winter Wind. When we arrived, my grandparents were all over Insley and I, squeezing cheeks, and babbling in Italian while my mother forced a smile and tried to understand what they were hammering on about. The drive to their house in the countryside was always lengthy, and I always fall asleep on the way to Concetta and Benigno's cottage. The night we arrive is the night my father decides to play the 12 variations of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and hopes that maybe I'm listening. I fell asleep on the couch, hearing the sounds in my head, over and over again, and finally, early the next morning, while my father's on his third cup of coffee, I approach the piano. Lift the cover gingerly, touch one of the notes, glide my little finger over to middle C, and replay the song in my head. Before I know it, my father's eyes are the size of dinner plates, and I'm playing the right hand of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star by ear. It was then when my father realised little Harry Sinclair wasn't an average child, it was then when he sat me down in front of the piano, taught me the left hand notes, and went through all the 12 variations with me. That night, I played the left hand for the K265 version, and my grandparents – on their awfully old home video camera – recorded the whole thing and kept the VCR tape somewhere in the basement. After he'd gone through the K265 version of the song, he picked me up, and danced through the house, singing the lyrics to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in loud, and vibrant Italian, while my little green eyes couldn't shine brighter.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

YES THE REVISED VERSION IS HERE MY LOVELIES

I HOPE U LIKE THIS BC I LOVE THIS :')