The wallpapered walls, the wooden floors. The Cherry table, upon which sits a sterling bowl inscribed so ornately it takes a moment to determine her initials. The rugs. The antique Persian rugs, the silk rugs, the rugs of woven and knotted patterns of blues, reds, and soft yellow creams. The rugs that should never be underfoot, yet cover the floors.
The Upright piano stands present but forgotten in the foyer. We've not pulled music from its keys in years. Spider webs lace foot pedals. No matter how many times I wipe a rag across them, try to polish them, the spider webs return as if trying to say something about futility of persistance. I could play one song on that piano, Chicago's Color My World. The piano bench opens for storage, music sheets. Inside still are my lessons. Whole notes, half notes, scales. Homework from a music teacher who gently explained to me that my fingers were not long enough, delicate enough, to truly play the piano.
Such requirements are not necessary for the spider.
4 comments:
i think my middle is somewhere in the beginning of this post.
This is another beautiful, thought-provoking post from you. I'm behind in my commenting, but not in my reading, so I'll take this opportunity to tell you that some of your recent blog entries have been wonderfully written. So moving and expressive!
Forgot to say I love the poem in your sidebar, too.
Color my World?...sweet memories. Impressive, I never made it past Chop-Sticks.
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