In The Abstract

Prompt Reaction #2

If my piano could talk

These keys of mine were once shining and new, polished ebony and ivory coating solid oak. I'm a little rusted in my bolts and strings now, but once I was tuned to perfection, every pedal performed beautifully. I remember the times my girl used to sit down and let her fingers dance through my sound. She never learned how to really play well, but with what she taught herself, she was brilliant. She was no Mozart, but she still tickled my fancy. With her I was old and I sounded as I do now, like a sunken battleship. I'm so old and tired now.

I remember times before my girl, when I was young. I was born in 1912, a fresh new music box for the farmer's wife to play on. Her melodies were simple, religious tunes as most songs of her time were. She played frequently for her children, who danced upon the wooden floors in their stockings.

Over the years I've had many fingerprints placed on my black and whites, and many times the farmer would replace my parts. For a while I thought I could live forever, because these keys of mine never failed. Now they're brown and stained and cracked. Some of them don't even make a sound. I'm covered with dust and a little mouse lives in me now. He may not be able to make music, but he knows that he is safe with me.

posted by Kasey @ 9/19/2005 09:05:00 AM