Just For You VII

Mar 04

This piano might be centuries old. The legs have collapsed and the strings have all oxidized and snapped. Layers of sickly yellowish dust cover the mildewed and sun-bleached spruce. 

Someone came through here recently. It may have been months ago. The stranger walked on special pointed shoes — not pointed at the toes, but at the soles. They wore shoes like little stilts to avoid leaving tracks in the dust. The visitor was lured by this ruined and stripped instrument — by the creaking floors, the silence and the depression. Wire thin filaments still balanced in the stagnant air. This guest surely wore a dust mask to avoid choking, but nothing covered their eyes. 

The intruder tried not to stir anything up. With every purposeful step a small depression was left. Wispy plumbs rose into the dim, sunlit stillness. The guest stopped and stood, realizing their mistake. The stranger waited for an hour or more on their pointed feet. They waited for the dust to settle again, but the disturbed material only hovered, balanced in the humidity and particulate haze.  In time — after hours — the visitor’s legs and hunched back pulsed with lactic agony.  At last, when the discomfort became unbearable, with excruciating slowness, the stranger made their way back through the collapsing doorway, eyes stinging from exposure.