When Nana Balch died, the grand piano made its way from Texas to Pam. In all the years I knew her, I never once saw her play it, but I know it held great comfort and many memories for her.
Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons
by Diane Wakoski
The relief of putting your fingers on the keyboard,
as if you were walking on the beach
and found a diamond
as big as a shoe;
you had just built a wooden table
and the smell of sawdust was in the air,
your hands dry and woody;
you had eluded
the man in the dark hat who had been following you
of putting your fingers on the keyboard,
playing the chords of
in an afternoon when I had no one to talk to,
when the magazine advertisement forms of soft sweaters
and clean shining Republican middle-class hair
walked into carpeted houses
and left me alone
with bare floors and a few books
Read the poem in its entirety.
I'll leave you today with this parting shot.
Pianos, unlike people, sing when you give them your every growl. They know how to dive into the pit of your stomach and harmonize with your roars when you’ve split yourself open. And when they see you, guts shining, brain pulsing, heart right there exposed in a rhythm that beats need need, need need, need need, pianos do not run. And so she plays. – Francesca Lia BlockThank you for reading. I hope to see you here again tomorrow.