This is my piano. I own it. Well, not exactly. My parents own the Steinway, but I'm the one who plays it. I'm the one who makes the piano sing. I play, and it responds to my touch. Soft touch, and the sound comes out so sweet it makes me cry. Hard touch, and I can startle my mother in the next room.
I finish playing a song, and then I see her standing in the doorway, with tears in her eyes. "That was beautiful," she'll say. "Play some more."
Then she'll sit down in the soft chair across from the piano, and I'll
play for her. It's so easy to talk with her this way. I feel like I'm
telling her everything about me -- all my wishes and dreams coming out
through my music.
She tells me I'm a prodigy. She tells me that I can do anything I want, that if I set my mind to do it, I can play at Carnegie Hall.
Okay! This is my piano, and I'm taking it with me to Carnegie Hall. See you there!
Happy music and art, Cinder LeDell
Stories in Paint by Cinder LeDell © 1997