I Will Never be Yuja Wang

            The crossword clue was small 
instrument, seven letters. Eventually 
      it led to pianino, which I've never 
heard before but apparently is the mid-
            eighteentth century forerunner of 
the upright piano. Sometimes I think of how  
      my life might be different, if my parents 
had their way and trundled me off to conservatory
            though every now and then, they'd sigh
Musicians always eat last. I didn't like 
      the idea of hours-long daily practice, 
for a performance opportunity that might never 
            materialize— I mean, I knew even then 
I was no prodigy. People talk about enjoying 
      the process and not the goal; so it was 
good to hear the great Yuja Wang say on BBC 
           television, I kind of want the goal 
without the process. Hard to believe, when she's
      powering through three hours of Rachmaninov 
on a concert stage with her pixie haircut, 
           five-inch stilettos, sparkly thigh- 
and shoulder-baring outfits. I will never be 
      a Yuja Wang. Instead, for the last 
forty-plus years I've been teaching students
           how to read poems and stories. I live
in a house with far too many books and not enough 
      counter space. The backyard is a scraggly
mess, and raccoons have tried to stake a claim
           on the southwest corner by the fence  
for a communal bathroom. But from June to August,  
      the lone fig tree shakes out its lushest  
green outfit beaded with so much fruit you wouldn't  
           believe. It may not know it, but it gives  
me so much joy all summer long, this thing I had  
      no hand in bringing to life, this thing I
can have no quarrel with enough to say I am done
           with everything, and I am done with you.