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The Piano

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I remember when my mother
played the piano.
She could play it the way light bounces off a chandelier.
Notes climbed up the stairs and swayed through the pipes
their footsteps unmuffled and their songs bright.
I remember when we bought that piano.
It was a great gleaming beast, thick with gloss.
There was music inside of it,
as sure as the gold-tinged strings and hammers
that my mother lifted me up to see.
She hasn't played the piano in a long time.
It stands, shut up and rigid
gray with dust.
The only thing it's used for is a bookshelf.
We don't notice it anymore.
Sometimes I wish I could open it up again
let out the music, dust off the keys,
make it black and proud and glistening.
But I never learned
how to play the piano.




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BlackPhoenix said...
Dec. 20, 2011 at 3:50 pm:
it paints a powerfull image, and a sad one of growing up.
 
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RainOnMyWindowpaneThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Nov. 14, 2011 at 10:59 pm:
This is a beautiful piece of writing. I love your metaphors and the way you strung each line into the next.
 
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