His hands fly across the octaves,
Delicately caressing the keys.
She dips her chin down
To look me in the eyes,
Tells me someday I’ll be like him.
I lift the corners of my lips
Into a small, misleading smile of agreement.
I know I don’t want
To be like that.
I used to love stroking black and white keys,
But now the keys choke me,
Locking me in,
Chaining me up.
I used to love playing on the colossal grand
in the school’s fancy concert hall,
But now I hate the hawk eyes
Drilling holes into me,
Swooping in,
And watching every move.
I double over at the jokes she makes,
Jokes that you would never tell somebody
Who doesn’t have the same
Ten-year-old boy sense of humor
As you do.
We really get each other.
But how do I tell her,
This woman that has seen me grow
From a little girl stacking pillows
On the piano bench to reach the keys
Towering above her,
To the young woman who bends down
To lower the bench
Every time she plays,
That this girl
Just wants to be
Done.