In the corner of his memory,
A gleaming black piano settled on one side.
In the corner of his childhood bedroom,
A tacky orange keyboard settled on one side.
His mom remembers that keyboard, it once belonged to her,
A little before he first learned to play songs from his favorite video games.
The plastic keyboard that would help him become a musician,
He looked up to it, he yearned for a real one
When he touched the broken keys with his tiny chubby finger.
"I feel so good, Mom. I feel so nice!"
He played the piano whenever his hands took him to that corner.
He didn't know its significance back then;
Back then, he was happy with just looking at it.
His sister remembers back during their elementary school days,
When his sweet old grandmother
Bought him a real piano.
The little boy would play and play
Until his fingers trembled and his family begged for silence.
He loved that piano with all of his heart
Until he had to move away.
He neglected it when he once yearned so strongly to play.
On top of the yellowish, faded tiles,
Dust was piling on in little mountains.
The piano's image had then been neglected.
Even then, the boy didn't know
Of the instrument's significance.
No matter where he was after he had moved,
He always defended that piano,
Even though he was unsure of when he would return home.
The piano sang out one last time, "Don't leave like this."
The boy said, "Don't worry. Even if I leave,
You'll do great on your own.
I remember when I first met you,
Before we knew it, I had grown up.
Though we are parting ways,
Don't ever feel sorry for me.
I'll meet you again, no matter how I do.
Greet me happily when that time comes."
The boy returns eventually, a geeky teen, uncomfortable with himself.
He remembers back then, when he first laid eyes on the piano,
Which was once gleaming and polished and now chipped and forgotten,
That he had completely forgotten how small the bench was, barely holding him up.
The awkwardness of playing was only for a moment. He touched the aged keys again.
Even though he was gone for a long time, his fingers fell perfectly onto the black and white tiles.
Without repulsion,
The piano accepted him, humming beautiful notes in sync with his fingers.
Without the instrument, the boy had felt alone.
Now at home, he felt rejuvenated and played long into the night.
After the dawn, the two of them,
They welcomed the morning together.
Rejoiced by the boy's return, the piano sang out, "I'll never let go of your hand!"
"I won't let go of you, either," he cried.
He often thinks about those years, though he is now an adult with a wife, kids, and responsibilities.
He had burned up the last of his teenage years sitting on the bench in front of the piano,
Wearing its strings down until it was out of tune.
Yes, the days when he didn't have time to look for colleges. He was too busy looking at his sheet music.
He laughed as he danced on the keys, he cried as he tapped the pedals.
Those days spent with his piano, his best friend, those moments are now in memories.
Weak, grasping his aching shoulder,
He said, "I really can't play anymore."
Every time he wanted to give up,
By his side the piano sang,
"Yes you can, you can really do it."
The man remembers back then, when he was fed up and lost.
Back then, when he fell into a pit of depression.
Even when he pushed everything away,
Even when he resented the sound of the keys being played,
The instrument stayed firmly by his side.
It didn't have to make any noise.
"So don't ever let go of my hand,
I won't let you go ever again either.
my birth and the end of my life,
You will be there to watch over it all."
The corner of my memory,
A gleaming black piano settled on one side.
In the corner of my childhood house,
A tack orange keyboard settled on one side.
