Old Man in Form of Piano

I think I took my own advice on returning to Butler and Wallace, guys. The details came from our trip to the piano rooms, and I decided to give them a little leash in a brief narrative. Don't worry, you don't need to write two-hundred words! Focus on the details. Anything else is up to you.

Wooden. Damaged. Dusty. Hardly mobile but for a set of gummed up wheels, the piano waits alone in a small room, a well-worn and wheel-chair bound man, slippers switch-footed , by the phone resting on his nightstand, just desperate for a little music, for the ring of a few notes and a little company in this white washed place of rest.

Five keys have been replaced, ivory teeth in an otherwise yellowed grin. The joints creak where I apply stress, and here at the lid as well. There is an eagerness for a persistent slack-jaw in spite of silence, for fear that a chance to speak might be missed.

My fingers try the keys like lips lost in a foreign tongue. I press a little. He grunts, asks me what I am trying to say. I press again. He moans this time, disappointment plain. I don’t speak this language, can’t curl my fingers around its flat consonants and sharp vowels.

We sit together, silent. He grins. He wants me to know it’s alright if we just sit for a while. He is glad of the company. I hum for him, soft, something sad I half remember from church as a boy. For a moment, we have a little music. He is tired. The lid shuts easy this time. It is well, it is well, with my soul. I turn off the lights.

Goodnight.