When I visited Grandma,
I went straight to the glassy onyx instrument
and sat
on the wooden squeaky bench
where I worked on my masterpieces
that consisted of the same three shiny keys
my tiny fingers
could barely reach.

Rather than covering her ears
and calling my music noise,
Grandma would pull out the camera
and ask me to play more.

I slammed my hands on the black and white keyboard
and sang as loud as I could,
making up words
as if I were a jazz singer
scatting whatever came to mind.

The clash of the piano
and my high pitched
out-of-tune voice
echoed
through the dim lit living room
and I was sure the entire neighborhood could hear me.

Occasionally
I would look at my Grandma,
who was peering through
the crystal lens at me,
and grin,
proud of my hard work.

She would clap and cheer
like I had played perfectly
and she was my number one fan.

I felt special
whenever I was with Grandma.
She spoiled me with compliments.
loved me at my worst,
and stood by and watched me shine
even if I had no talent at all.

She will always be
my Grandma,
my cheerleader,
and my biggest hero.