They are the only ones echoing out a melody. I am the only one who press them. 88 spruce constructed keys with fragile touch and expressive feelings like mine. 88 among millions of others. 88 confusing chords mumbled by famous professionals. From the bench, I ponder them, but observers just think sounds are automatically constructed.
         Their emotions are secret. They create goosebumps on the skin’s delicate surface. They crescendo and decrescendo and silence the room between measures and clefs they sing bringing the jumbled mind to a brief hollowness. This is how they evoke happiness.
          Let one forget his reason for being, they’d all crumble like dry baked cookies, each note’s importance forgotten. La, La, La they sing with each key press. They dance.
          When I am too old and arthritis creeps to keep playing, when I am a wilted flower drooping against the ground. When there is no melodies left to be created. 88 who express without thought. 88 spruce constructed keys who create laughter and joyous rhythm. 88 whose only reason is to keep me going.