sketchbook stories: the tiny piano

songs in the key of life

The tiny piano sits silently in the farmhouse, yellowed keys beckoning. Its journey began a century ago in my great-uncle’s one-room Boston apartment.

After he died, it moved to my mother’s childhood home. She learned on this 66-key upright, entire octaves eliminated for smaller spaces. It accompanied her across two coasts, five states, three husbands and one wayward daughter.

She played hymns; I struggled with Mozart.

Once, it appeared on the Mothers’ Club float. In top hat and tux, she played for hours as the Memorial Day parade looped around the island.

The Mother’s Club disbanded; my mother passed. And still, the piano waits.

An old Christmas card my mom drew, featuring the tiny piano and our ubiquitous gray cat