The Pianist

the pianist

she entered the pearly opalescent venue

minutes before the orchestra

a lone window’s obvious curtains signaled to her,

beckoning to closure,

cacophony of Amsterdam Avenue

competing with the magnificence of this palace

somewhere someone fastidiously tuned a violin…

and as the room evolved into silence

Diana lit the remaining sticks of sandalwood…

in another 45 minutes, tears would migrate from their ducts like refugees

the sweet ebony Steinway stood regally,

sentinel buffered on a hill

Diana could only think of her grandmother,

lost inside dementia,

a frozen Buchenwald hourglass,

the last grains of sand

drip

drop

forming

a rising pile

“I will play for Nana tonight”, she had decided.

“Mendelssohn's Piano Concerto No. 1 in G minor, Op. 25”

“After all, survival is all that matters”,

her delicate fingers somehow understanding

her 3000 year Hebraic thirst so very well

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