She let it sit there
For seventeen years at least.
The piano in the corner, that is.
Dad played it.
I played it.
And she listened as
She washed the dishes.
So when I heard the simple chords
Emerge from the keys
Like phantom chords without a hand
And saw her there, concentrating on the notes
Like a focused child
I was confused.
I think hearing that song on the old radio
Reawakened her need to play the piano.
She says now that she never had the time.
Does she have no time because
All I do is type at the computer
She, after seventeen years
She wants to be the one on the radio
Laughing with every arpeggio and octave jump.
It took her this long
But maybe she realized
That music can do a lot to change one’s mood?
Maybe it won’t cure her fibromyalgia,
But it might make her forget
Just for a little bit
And make her dream that she’s
The pianist on the radio.