At the same time of the day( 6:55 in the morning) her father called for her. She lamely stood, clumsily walked to the doorway. " I'm coming Dad!" she shouted. Then she went back to her desk, threw her schoolbooks into a little pile, and got dressed. A simple red T-Shirt of her dream university, a pair of dark blue jeans and light blue stripes just up where the bottoms were folded , a pair of pink, old socks with little strawberry patterns. Finally, she slipped into her usual black Nikies sneakers she owned and wore practically everyday for the last four years. Somewhere in the house, her father called for her again. She gathered her schoolbooks, grunted slightly under their weight, and with one final glance behind, lethargically trudged down the hall and disappeared from vision. A few minutes later a car door would slam shut, and she'd be gone.
The house is now my own. The morning sun's soft glow fell on me and produced a tickling sensation. Two squirrels leaped from one tree to another, in search of nuts and power to begin their day. In the near distance, little sparrows would sing a little melody. As they finished the song, they would glance expectingly at me as if awaiting the evaluation of their performance, me being a piano after all. How I wish I could tell them their voices are lovely but the " Mi" is always slightly off. Yet of course, I couldn't. I have not made a sound in years. My lids were pressed tightly against each other and I cannot open them. Under my lids are a row of white teeth now slightly grey with dust and filth. How I wish to show them, even when they were in their most despicable form! Yet I have not done so in years. She has not played me for a long, long time. I remember when she was toddler, dancing around the house to the the songs of her favorite television program. Every day she would put both hands on my upper lid and open my mouth. She would sit in front of my dark, shiny frame, remove the layer of red cloth covering my teeth, and examine her reflection on my body. She was never satisfied with what she saw , though I silently assured her that she was beautiful. Finally, she would take a deep breath and begin to play. What a wondrous moment it is to sing and express! I sang, on the top of my lungs, so loud that I am sure the little sparrows in the distance heard me.
Year after year passed, our time together shortened. Eventually, she did not have time to play me at all. Dust gathered on my once shiny frame and her mother covered my top with a white tablecloth. My lids were pressed tight against each other, and inside, dust crept on my keys until they are a light shade of grey. The golden linings on my body is now a loathsome dark yellow. The pedals have rusted and black stripes have begun to cover the brown. I was broken, a broken black thing. Days after days have past and I have no one but a broken metronome whose silver ticks once ticked in an irregular beat, sitting atop of my head for company. We try to start up a conversation, but I cannot open my heavy lids and his batteries has gone dead. We settled for the sounds of silence instead.
You may wonder, is this the tragedy of a black piano? I can assure you it's not. Although I no longer sing for her and the sparrows, we were always close. Every day at 5:00 pm she would return to her room. She would turn on the lights and settle her school books on her table. Then she would pause, then turn gingerly to look at me. Our eyes would meet, and for a moment, both of us have spoken without sound, how much we love each other. Then she would turn away and begin her homework, I would watch her and begin to sing in my head a little song. If the sparrows in the distance could hear me, they might tell me that my " mi" is slight off.