piano recital

Okay here we go. This is it. I have never felt more nervous about previous piano recitals than I had on the night of my very last. It would be the last performance under the tutelage of my piano teacher of ten years, and one more chance for perfection. The sweaty palms and butterflies in the stomach amplified my nerves. Being last presented its own pressures. As the student before me finished up Arabesque by Debussy, I said a little prayer. I adjusted the squeaky bench, took a deep breath, and as if with a mind of their own, my fingers began its familiar dance to the third movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Once just an endless piece that I knew as the bane of my existence, the exquisite music suddenly became the most important piece that I had ever memorized. I was proud of my performance. Even though I made a few mistakes, the numerous compliments made up for them, and I reminded myself that everyone is their own worst critic. When my teacher gave her annual end-of-year speech, she called me up to present me with a bouquet of flowers and to express her joy of being able to watch me mature in a passion we both shared. Okay here we go. This is it. I have never felt more nervous about previous piano recitals than I had on the night of my very last. It would be the last performance under the tutelage of my piano teacher of ten years, and one more chance for perfection. The sweaty palms and butterflies in the stomach amplified my nerves. I was last to perform of 15 students, a position reserved for her most advance player, and ever since I was eight years old, that position was mine. Being last presented its own pressures. As the student before me finished up Arabesque by Debussy, I said a little prayer. All eyes were on me as I walked down the narrow aisle.