A Piano

 One day a piano appeared in my front yard. As I stared through the window, I was petrified. Not because it randomly appeared, but because it has been over a decade since I have even seen a piano, especially one within my own home. Its origins were the last thing I worried about. After another minute of standing dead still, I closed the blinds and tried to forget it.

 I used to be a famous pianist–one of the greatest in this century, in fact. However, ten years ago, as I was playing in front of hundreds, my life was over. Sitting for minutes on end, the audience whispered to each other, wondering what had happened. For what reason did I stop playing? I could not give them an answer. After that day, I had never played–or even stepped near–a piano again.

 Ever since I was a little boy, I saw the beauty of music while watching my mother’s television. Ironically enough, it wasn’t the piano that inspired me, rather it was the sound of the violin, perfectly strung by a woman worth gold. I spent my childhood, even my young adult life, loyal to the black and white keys. I played masterpieces.

 But every time I sat down my heart would almost give out, the reluctance to play crawling over my back. The first time, fine. The tenth time, tolerable. The hundredth time, aching. The thousandth time, torturous. The final time, relieving.

 The next day, the piano closed in.