02/21/11
The White Room
A window threw the sunlight against the white walls. The room is deprived of everything else. Outside the window, the birds’ song filled the room with their lovely singing. This is my room; the room my master gave to me. This plainness gives me joy. Before coming here, I shared a room with my siblings. We were cramped side by side. They were probably happy that I left them.
Once a day my master would come to me. He was a tall gentleman. His smile brightened my already bright room. We usually sat in silence and listened to the birds’ song. When we would talk, the birds would stop and listen to my sweet voice. His eyes would close as he listened to me. This made me happy that he enjoys it when I talk. If my master spent too much time talking to me, the missus would come and drag him out of my room by the ear.
Some days he would bring a young boy with him. He reflects my master when he smiles. Whenever my master told the young boy it is okay, we talk. My voice isn’t as sweet as when my master talks to me. I would talk in choppy highs and lows to the young boy. Sometimes the master will help him talk to me.
I yearned to go to the other side of the double doors that keep me lock in this room. My master teased me when he opened the windows. I can feel the light summer breeze on my hands. I want to go outside to see the green leaves blowing in the wind. My master sometimes brought in vase of colorful flowers to sit upon my back. “To make a bright room even brighter,” he would say to me before I talk to him.
One day, my master brought a person I’ve never met before. The guest brought out a violin and together, my master, his guest, the violin, and I talked. We made sweet music that filled the room with happiness and energy. The young boy and the missus joined us. They danced to the beat of our music. That was the happiest day of my life.
My master came in one day. I’ve never noticed how gray his hair was. How wrinkles lined his aging face. I yearned to give him some of my ageless beauty. His fingers tickle my hands as we got ready to talk. Instead of talking through me he said, “I’m not going to around for much longer.” He then left.
That was the last day I saw him.
The not-so-young boy came in a few days later. He laid his hand upon my back. His eyes dropped salty tears upon me. I wanted to hug him. Comfort him. I wanted to cry too. I wanted to express my sadness with him. He must have sensed that because we talked. My voice was low and mournful. The missus joined us. She dabbed her eyes to not mess up her mascara. “Good bye, sweet friend.” The middle-aged man said to me. He held his arm out to the missus. They walked out of the room.
The summer went and passed. Autumn, winter, and spring went by without much noticed. A year passed before a visitor entered my room. It was the middle-aged man. He had brought others with him. “Be careful when moving her. She’s seen many years.” He then puts a hand me one last time. “She’s an old friend.”
The other men looked at each other a mumbled, “How can a piano be a friend?”
