There’s an old piano in my basement, sitting among broken records, saws, power tools, and other useless items. Uncared for and forgotten, the Chickering cries, though no one will hear, and sheds tears that no one will see. Light filters through the glass doors and windows, but the piano is sheathed in lonesome darkness. Moons rise and suns set through the glass doors and windows, but the lifeless antique has stopped caring. I’d like to imagine the piano had once been cared for, loved even, by a young girl. A young girl whose hands played each key with a smooth, delicate grace. I’d also like to imagine that this was a time where both girl and piano were happy because I know neither is now. For now the piano lies in that dusty basement, resenting the girl for leaving it so abruptly. And the girl…she’s dead. She died long ago and her love for the piano died along with her.