Piano Keys

I remember the piano room
at age thirteen,
my solitary refuge
from the noises of my high school,
my fingers on ivory keys,
following the notes
to a song I barely knew.

I drift back to a chapel room
at age six,
hiding from my mother
to play on the old piano
about a duck and her young
swimming in a lake,
before my teacher came
to take me from my song.

I wake up to today,
at age twenty-two,
where I traded the piano
for a pen,
and the musical notes
for the words they bring to life,
far from the dreams I had in my childhood,
and I’ve never been happier.


Note: When I was a kid, I wanted to play the piano. There was just something about that mesmerized me. Somehow, I was able to convince my mom to let me take lessons with one of the music teachers at my old school. When I was thirteen, my teacher told me that I had the potential to be a good pianist someday, but unfortunately I had to quit because my mom needed to redirect the money for my lessons to pay my for my older brother’s therapy. I wouldn’t consider it a total loss though. When I got into writing, I got the same satisfaction that I felt when I was playing the piano. I guess I was meant to do something else with my life after all.

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