Last Fall

Everybody Breaks A Glass

Here I'm standing in the middle, not just a little but a hill full
Wondering how I got a head cold, wishing I didn't know what I know
It's never been about the money, we're worthy or we are not worthy
However much you got on your plate, you're as good as you reciprocate

We all pretend to keep our tongue out of our cheek
Everyone's the fool they seek
We all go off the track, and feel for our way back
Everybody breaks a glass

I bit my lip, awaiting her reaction.

"You ever wish you could bottle up a moment in a jar? I'd put a cap on that."

"Really?" My insecurity asked, no doubt the apple of my cheeks tinting pink.

"Really."

I ran a nervous hand through my hair and she giggled, a sound like home made wind chimes, childlike and free. "What? What'd I do?"

"Nothing it's just..." she poked my nose, to which it scrunched and she giggled that cheerful, adorable fucking giggle again. "That! You did that when you were singing! And then you did it when you touched your hair just then. It's so cute do it again!"

"It's so stupid is what it is!" I contented, but it was impossible to be at all mad, so I matched her smile. "You were playing Rain."

"Mhm." She hummed. "Every song you build up, you should be able to strip down." She tapped a note and another.

"All your acoustic versions are guitar?" It was meant to be a statement, but it delivered as a question. "I didn't know you played." I thought aloud.

"No one does." She smiled faintly, answering what I was about to ask. "I taught myself in college. I'd sit in the practice room to think on nights I couldn't sleep, but eventually thinking was hurting, so I'd play to forget."

"Why didn't you ever play this one?"

"This piano was used for almost a century with a book that condemns who I am, on its mantle. You see, when I was younger, my grandfather traveled back to his parents home in Argentina where he grew up to take a photo. He didn't have one and was 'getting too old for memory to serve him.' He returned with this piano from the chapel where his father was once a priest. He washed, sanded, polished, retuned it and gave it to us, so he could teach my sisters and I how to play, but I refused to go near it. Then my grandfather stopped by to visit while my family was on vacation. I, uh, didn't go. So he knocked, walked in, walked down here, sat on this bench and motioned for me to sit too. With no introduction, he said 'When I was thirteen, I told my mother I was going to the library on the corner and instead I bought chewing tobacco from the kid down the street. When I was eleven, I stole candy from a shope. When I was seventeen, I copied test answers from a classmate. I've lied, I've stolen and I've cheated. We all sin and all sin is equal. If I can play this then you can too. Anyway, It'd be a shame for a talented musician to neglect an instrument.' Then he got up, clapped me on the back and left. I wrote Cucha on this piano the next day."

"You should write a memoir." Was all I managed to say. She threw her head back and laughed. "I'm serious. It'd be my favorite book."

"I'll probably never forget that. Thank you."

"You're welcome. That's my favorite song by the way."

"Cucha?"

I nodded. "Rebuild too. And What Lies Between."

"Pick the happy songs will you?" She asked sarcastically and laughed.

I snorted. "You're the one who wrote them!"

"Touchè." She side eyed me, suppressing a smile. "I was angry and upset, but I learned that the world doesn't stop turning. It moves on, so I did too."