I was thinking maybe I'll write a short story every day. A REALLY short story. Not sure if I will but here's day one. No edits.
I sat at the piano, and put my fingers on the keys. They didn’t move. They rested. Old hands. Not so much in years, but in experience. They’ve put in hours, days really, holding other hands. The fingers have twitched endlessly over keyboards typing out idiocies, and every once and awhile meaning. They built things. Destroyed things. In an attempt to build something have accidentally destroyed something. They held forks and knives, stirred with spoons. In 30 years, they’ve done so much. How could they be young?
I tap the keys lightly. A melody springs from them. It’s one I’ve never heard before, and one I’ll probably never here again. I make it up as I go. Hitting the wrong notes, creating dissident chords. But it’s ok. I’ll figure it out. The next go around it’ll sound right. Might take a third go, but I’ll get it.
The sounds get louder, the keys pound against the bottom of the frame. It sounds angry, I’m not sure why. There’s no need. I guess right now it just wants to be. So I let it. The hands, they are doing all the work, and it’s their choice.
I wonder what they will be doing tomorrow- my hands. Typing again, no doubt. They will hold glasses and forks and spoons again- but I hope they will do something more. Something I can’t foresee right now. What if my computer broke? What if all my utensils melted? What if your hand was no longer here to hold? Then what would my hands do?
I suppose they would have to find a new way to do all that. A different way to play music, perhaps. Perhaps I won’t even use my hands. Perhaps I will sing.