Beads of sweat escaped from my forehead,
leaking from my back,
lubricating my hands and
making my work difficult.
Through years of practicing ever day,
The piano had become
something familiar,
something dear,
something intimate.
In it’s simple black and white surface,
I saw reflected years of commitment,
years of grueling effort,
and still something more:
a key to a future that is otherwise, unattainable.
Something that my yellow skin
would only stand in the way of.
Today, like a thousand days before,
I put everything that I had into my trade,
the only thing that made me unique,
my hands going numb
and my tongue growing thirsty.
Next to me, my guest watched
silently and intently,
with a focused expressing in her brown eyes,
carefully watching my hands as
they performed the song perfectly,
her lips curving into a smile
as I completed my song.
I began to play again,
content that my spectator was pleased with my work.
Her brown eyes focused upon my yellow hands-
her mouth curving upward into a contented grin
each time I completed the song,
her white hands clapping as I smiled,
enjoying the tiny limelight,
rejoicing in my handiwork-
the song that I had learned to play perfectly.
“Just like magic” she says.