A Memento of Ivory

I wasn't taught how to play the piano.  My brothers were the ones that got lessons, and being left out I, naturally, wanted to join in.  So I'd be up learning notes, asking my older brother to show me where the left hand should be, bullying my younger brother to show me how to play a piece.

*Warning:  You're reading the works of a middle child.  Black Sheep material.*

I was left out because my parents insisted that I focused learning the violin.  

After a few years I was the only one among my brothers playing the piano, and I miss it.  There's no piano for me to play now and I so loved losing myself in a piece.  

So this is for the people who love music:  listening, playing, anything and everything about music.  

And, of course, dedicated to the piano that taught me how to play.  

*picture is from http://www.flickr.com/photos/ourhomeschool/6188472671/

09/29/2013 (Sunday)- A Memento of Ivory

The ivory toy piano was a memento. 

Grandmother’s last gift.

She sat in the corner of the living room, untouched, a forlorn child unattended by the family.  Its body cracked and yellowing with age, its bones giving way neglected, its voice broken by time.

The piano was beautiful once.  Young in a memory I cannot recall.  Her voice sweet and playful to the ears as she sang.

How the people fought to touch her then, yearned to make her sweet dulcet voice sing through night and day.

I tried my hand tickling the ivories today.

All I heard were tears.