I lost my keys

12

The first thing you never fail to notice is always the dust that sticks to your fingers upon touching the piano keys. The cover is rarely used and your grandmother rarely plays. While you're living with her for this year of middle school she offered to pay for your lessons, something that your mother has always insisted on trying to give you. You're unsure why, she never really explained, but you also know that this hand-me-down beginner hymn booklet the piano instructor gave you has several stains and is barely in one piece. The pages feel disgusting, almost as bad as the dust on your fingers, whenever you try to practice the piece she assigned. She plays for the church and is by no means someone you consider a real teacher. There is something about the music, though, while you're playing, that you forget the dust, and your mind is transported to another world. A world you've fabricated for yourself. An illusion, a story, about the notes. Eventually the combination of dirt, dander, and other grime in the air that had rested on these keys is too much for your fingers and you need to wash your hands. You quickly put the cover down, hiding the notes, and the strange sensation that music gives you. You tell yourself you hate music. And you do. You're not obsessed with songs and albums and singers and cute lead singers in bands like some other classmates. But, damn, it sure is liberating while in the moment. You can't ignore that.