Another Poem

1940s Mahogany Piano

My Bestemor does not play

Even though it was her piano.

Even though she knows how.

Even though all her sheet music is deteriorating still, inside the bench

Where her mother’s hand stitched burlap seat cover,

Decorated in the center by delicate flowers, in whites and pinks, and pale blues,

Was covered in a simple patterned fabric from JoAnns once it reached its fourth home.

My Bestemor does not play,

Even though she taught me chopsticks, when I was seven,

On a visit to the Wisconsin town that holds the Irish blood in me,

On a visit to the mahogany paneled Craftsman home,

Where the piano gleamed in the corner,

The seat cover not yet unraveling.

At the mahogany piano,

My Bestemor placed her soft hands on mine,

Held them, under the glow of the Christmas tree, adorned with julehjerter.

I heard her play,

Briefly, and never again,

As she directed each finger to the right place

And I made music, how she made music when she was young, and blonde,

And lived in Minnesota.

At the mahogany piano,

The wood cracked from hauling it,

From that Craftsman, to my Capecod

I learned with my sisters how to play,

Simple tunes in front of small audiences.

But from Capecod to a smaller Craftsman

Our hands skirted away from the instrument,

Our bodies from the audiences,The music we have forgotten, resting dormant in the keys,

Which sag,

Some of which are mute,

The brass pedals, when they feel feet abruptly lower,

And the off-key-notes echo for longer than they should.

My Bestemor does not go near,

The mahogany piano, in the corner of my living room,

Groaning out of tune, in the few moments,

Maybe twice a year,

An Aunt’s unsure fingers delicately rest on its keys

Plunking out the early notes of a song. A generic holiday tune.

That is all anyone in this room knows anymore.