I left my piano in the Poconos. I made a major move that did not allow me to take it with me. I miss playing. I realized this when I went to visit a piano store recently and walked around touching almost every piano on the floor. Yamaha, Steinway, Baldwin, Kawai, all black and beautiful and filled with soul. Grands and baby grands, elegant handmade craftsmanship only love can create. Strings and keys work together to vibrate harmonious sounds that allow me to birth stories without words. Syncopated notes play through longing fingers, like ten minds working in reciprocity.
I want to play again, this time on a Steinway grand piano in a ceiling to floor glass windowed home library. The piano and wall to wall books would overlook the kitchen garden. I’d play for the herbs a growth song, a glad staccato coded to their DNA. They would grow for me and I would play for them.
Time moves andante. There is no piano here. My piano sits in the mountains, cold, alone and soundless, like that part of me disconnected from the euphony, from the black and white keys I cannot touch.
My fingers long for sound.
© zaji, 2016