On the corner of my family’s living room

stands a piano.

A sleek

black

upright

Yamaha,

whose

glossy surface

glistens against the ceiling lights.

Unassuming at first

the pristine piano is a living testament

to years of

tantrums

tears

and triumphs,

with keys as immaculate as a polished countertop

in an opulent home,

constantly being

wiped

wiped

and wiped,

in order for it

to serve the

sweetest

and most harmonious

music to its listeners,

even at the lightest touch

of the performer.

At first sight

the piano is pretentious,

it has a presence so loud

that it takes up

the entire room,

despite it being only a

minute figure

sitting alone

beside

a wall.

However,

it has dedicated its entire life

to accompanying

my

chubby

clumsy

and childish

fingers,

enduring

the banging

the smashing

and the angry striking

of its precious keys

while others would cringe.

she is

indeed

a loyal friend:

My fingers

were honored

in this way

by

this

heavenly

piano.

Oh piano,

what a wonder you are!