I used to visit you every afternoon.
The hours we spent were sometimes frustrating,
But earnest in their striving.
Driven by dreams,
I was young then.
Your response to my fingers was bliss.
Touch was a teacher of gentleness,
Weighted fingers from forearms or back
Lyrical caresses and sonorous pinched chords
I loved the fire you stirred.
Thank you for teaching me that patterns
Your black and white keys, so familiar,
remind me to use their pattern to safely navigate
the length, breadth, width, and height.
They give me a place to start
Can I find you again?
Seated on the bench before you.
In my mind, I can hear the faint sounds we used
Music scored with memories of my lifetime.
My fingers feel the keys without touching them.
Are you waiting for me?
I used to play you to please others.
Now, I have learned I must play first for myself.
I miss you.