I sat down at my piano today,
for the first time
in many years,
I lifted the lid to expose the keys
that once were my best friends.
I paused, hands poised,
a few inches above contact,
the sudden awkwardness
of running into an ex lover.
I had turned my back
on this constant companion,
for no other reason
than simple foolishness,
falling for the sweet seduction
of temporary pleasures.
For a split second
I almost reached for the lid,
hid my eighty eight best friends
away from sight again,
but then my fingers touched ivory.
At first, I didn't think the music would come,
weak notes, jumbled chords,
slowly my fingers remembered their dance,
they played notes with confidence,
dissidence faded as the chords found harmony.
There was technical precision,
my beat more even than the metronome,
but no passion, no heart,
that special magic that transforms
notes to music,
music to joy,
was lacking.
I kept playing, moving from piece to piece,
composer to composer,
letting styles mix and intermingle.
Beethoven led to Billy Joel,
Billy Joel into Mozart, into Beatles.
Classical, pop, rock, punk, jazz,
soon there was no distinction,
there was only music,
and the magic I had turned my back on
so long ago.
The music and magic
that had never turned away from me.