Your hands lay themselves on the middle of the set of keys, instinctively, middle C. Alone in the room, damp, musky; a bare stream of sunlight making itself known strains at its own attempt. But that doesn’t matter. Your back is against it; for that moment nothing else exists. The single, billion specks of dust that float effortlessly through the attempt of the sunlight, and everywhere, do not make their blind way into your thoughts. The fact that your hands and this piano have not made contact in decades, and that with every push of each key you know you will hear the age of the piano, doesn’t exist. The worry of it, the increased blood pressure, the beads of sweat forming out of the endless number of pores in your wrinkled forehead, the back thought that you now must get someone to come in and fix it- you don’t let it exist. It can’t penetrate your thoughts, you are determined.

The room is silent, dark, yet illuminated by your poised figure, your rehearsed posture. The room radiates as if no one has come inside in years. Before you, no nervous figure has surreptitiously slipped a key into the lock, turned it, and, with a quick look behind for safety, slipped in unnoticed. The room thanks you and beckons to you, suddenly coming to life as you bring your welcome breath in.

Yes, the room is silent, but you know when to begin playing. Your internal metronome starts… and, one, two, three, four… your hands give just the right amount of pressure. A chemical reaction, your hands giving the exact and precise amount of push, your brain cooperating with your muscles, down to your hands, who cooperate with the piano keys, who cooperate with the different strings to create just the right sound, and the piano, thrilled to have permission to release its voice, thrilled yet shy, lets out a smooth minor chord.