It leans broken and neglected against the wall,
like a tired, lonely old man waiting patiently for a visitor.
In the silence it seems to yearn for a gentle touch
to give voice to the many songs it has yet to sing.
On its dusty surface linger memories of useful, busy times,
children laughing, wedding marches, birthday wishes.
The high-spirited melodies of youthful gladness
spilling out the open window and into the sunny afternoon.
There were better days,
when as a child, I eagerly climbed onto its bench
like a grandfathers welcoming lap,
coaxing it to play a beautiful song.
Always the loyal friend, forgiving my sticky hands
and stumbling fingers,
I pounded joyfully on the ivory keys
and fervently stamped on its foot pedals.
Eyes closed, swaying wildly from side to side,
the music crashed and rumbled in my ears
resounding through the house,
filling the air with exuberant thunder,
and for a while, I was lost in the enchantment.