My fingers ache to touch those pearly white keys, alongside black keys, to jam out to my ancient piano left in a corner of my home. Piano has been such a huge part of my life. It was my first love – and I fell for it mindlessly, easily.
A 7-year-old girl was asked with a passing remark if she wanted to learn to play the piano and she said why not. By pure coincidence a piano was passed down to her by a family who was moving. Gradually, years flew by and her beloved piano became that one constant through her growth spurt, joys and tears. The most difficult moments were ones accompanied by tunes she could trace with her heart. As the keys dance, they lift a part of the burden with them, for that moment was to be thrown, and then savored.
That little girl was me.
It’s been too long since I’ve returned home to visit my grand’ol piano – that’s now untouched and getting more out of tune by the years. It won’t be too long before it has to retire. I miss the wooden layers that are falling by pieces, the keys that produce a strange sound and the feeling of its solid keys under my fingers. Three more weeks, my dearest.