It was late in winter when I heard the thin, halting piano through the walls:
A neighbor playing Chopin, but with care, pausing,getting it right.
Having no scholarly sense of romantic piano
And partial judgment, I felt sorry for the strange man, whose playing
Was weak and earnest, inflected by the tired life.
So I imagined it. A sadness born of loving that music…
That’s the kind of thing you do when you’re young:
Think of the old as falling or fallen, quiet,
Welling with occasional tears.
I had no idea the body, aging, garrulous
Takes up an instrument without the heart’s permission
Fiercely keeping warm…
S.K.
Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University
