Piano.

I watched her place each fingertip

on an antique ivory key

to hold the piano’s hands.

To her, this practice was routine

—her mother’s voice calling her from chores,

a foot upon a creaking church floorboard,

a screen door slamming shut

by the wind—commonplace.

But I did not hear this,

so I closed my eyes.

In my mind, her practice came as far off rain

—immersing wet the grounds of flat farm fields.

Our screen porch door charging open,

calling me out for the summer storm.

Her base notes thundering

echos for miles,

I keep walking.

Passed the barn and windmill,

and passed our wooden swing,

a narrow path of tall grass

lie down to point toward the pond.

With each note of her treble chord
a full droplet slips down a strand of uncombed hair.

Entering into the raindrop splashing pond,

waist deep in murky water,

confessing everything,

I spread out my arms, and drop backwards

into tepid waters.

Amazing Grace, I once

was deaf, but now I hear.

The rain passed,

but left a pair of hands

embracing ebony.