"Ever since I was young, I’ve heard songs. From family: mom, dad, brothers, cousins; uncles, who weren’t actually related; and alike. I would sit at the piano bench with my legs dangling straight downward, and I played until I heard something off. I would stop, re-situate, and continue from the beginning. I never liked to miss a note. Starting fresh always seemed a defeat - a reminder of why I had to wash the slate clean. Soon came slowly. Though, soon I was able to press the pedals. Three of them there were. I had no idea what the center one did, and no great use for the left. I enjoyed playing as loud as I felt like. Which, would mean leaving the left alone, unless for a special occasion that the day issued. No longer tippy toes on the pedal. Excited I sat, having to exert no more pressure than that of the brain. I took this to be the first day of womanhood. No longer a child, I thought. I still think back to that moment; fondly sometimes, and sorrowfully most. If I had known, I wouldn’t have stayed cooped up in the living room staring at the white and blacks. The white of the paint, and the black where it had chipped. The white of the keys that encompass the whole of the board, and the black of the keys that timidly refrain. The white of my pale hands, and the black of my eyelids when I was too tired, or too frustrated in my lack of creativity. I was taught by my family, but there’s only so much they could teach. After the disease took over, that is what was left. The white and blacks. Not all the time, but enough. Sometimes there is a fantastic showing of splayed colours and hues; however, I spent most of my time inside - only a handful of moments looking at the sunrise. This is when I’m awake, of course. Dreams are different. Something to look forward to, and in the same breath, dread.
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