bronwyn

20 Apr, 2026

Mortality is just a pause, especially for a deity.

When I heard that you passed, I was at a church. The setting was vapid and shallow - I feel you would’ve agreed. It was a “through the grapevine” type thing. I was so disconnected from the people up north for years and rightfully so - my teen years were lonelier than they should’ve been. The news didn’t immediately shake me, but over the course of the years, I would lift my larynx and hear you an arms length behind me “I feel like a light switch has been pressed in you, your whole being lights up.” I remember it. Verbatim. You were so excited to tell my mum too.

I’ve carried that grief for 15 years now. I’m sorry I never attended your funeral but I hear that you wanted to keep your illness a secret so as not to distract from your work. I know you were sick in my last years of our lessons together, but you chalked it up to “not eating as much”. My mum complimented your weight loss. You were always selfless and despite it maybe being one of your biggest flaws, I just want you to know it changed me and I never realised it until very recently.

It might be melodramatic to say, but you saved me. Everything you taught me, everything you said to me made me feel seen. As a small girl with dark hair and glasses, I wasn’t meant to be seen. I remember you sticking up for me when I was auditioning and I appreciate how you told me about your frustrations. “You should’ve got the lead, Leah. I’m so sorry.” How you celebrated profusely with me when I nailed a technique, how you noticed how anxious I was when I played my piano exam pieces and how difficult I found it to sight read.

I want to tell you what you inspired. Miss, I’m teaching other kids how to sing and play piano, sometimes guitar now too. You’d love all my students. They’re all beautiful and unique and all of them are a joy to teach, every single one. You’d love this generation and I wish you were here to see it. Some days I wish I could phone you and bounce ideas around. My kids are all beautiful amazing people with hearts of soft pliable gold. I also have a son now - you know how sons are, right? He’s the love of my life and he has a big mouth but I think about how silly he is and how you’d admire that about him. He also has huge musical potential but, like me, he’s still my son and you know there’s only so far you can push someone.

I remember when you asked me if I really liked learning piano as I struggled through another Associated Board piece. I’d been learning since I was 3, I knew nothing else. So when you discovered I could sing and loved it, I carried that energy with me, I put it in my bag and it escapes into the room - even on my off days. I handed one of my tiniest singing students an electric guitar a few months ago and I saw the same light you probably saw. This happens all the time. I feel you tapping on my shoulder as a reminder “That’s it! Right there!”

Sometimes I sit at the piano and feel the expulsion of wind from your applause. I wish we had more time together and I wish I was more receptive to your brilliance.

So, from the bottom of my heart, I want to say thank you. Thank you for feeding my soul, thank you for revisiting parts of my life that needed it, thank you for showing me who I really was and who I needed to be.