Dear Keys for Kids,

This beautiful upright was given to me by a beloved teacher before she passed away from cancer. I have loved playing it and now have been teaching my toddler to enjoy music on it as well. But we moved to a new house, with our piano, and the instrument just does not fit. We need a much smaller one. I have kept this large upright for two reasons: I have to have a piano in my home for daily music, and Jill Stoll, Art teacher at Wayzata High School, gave me the piano so generously. If the piano lives on, so does she, along with the memory of her spirit, talent, and generosity.

Why is the condition fair? It has always needed tuning since I received it, and the iron casters have some rust since before I owned it. I believe the instrument is about 100 years old and has been painted a soft green, likely many times over in many colors. But I love the avocado color! The matching bench is spacious, in good condition, and unpadded.

I know someone will love and use this piano like we have. Please share it with someone who can use it.

Sincerely,

A grateful musician

Collecting dust and glitter after a late-night, long-forgotten

party, let go from a child in

a dreamlike reverie.

It doesn’t really matter. Somehow you dare to touch the heavens

but its pearly gates still let you in. You lay on linoleum floors, pathetic and deflated, and the children awaken and search for you.

Floating every day, blown off course with a wingflap, you are everything and still will be. A new pair of eyes looks across the horizon

and I hope you see tomorrow.

Beneath the starry sky,

She dreamed and cried

And prayed and hoped

To go back home, to her real home

Bright, glimmering stars

And the twinkling airplane lights

Listened to her

And took her message home

That night, she wished

For his happiness and his family.

Not for herself or her family,

But his and only his

The same day, he felt

An invisible blanket wrap around him,

Keeping him warm in the cold

As he looked out at the dancing snow

It turned out that,

The butterfly effect had proven itself

Time and again.

This time, beneath the starry sky.

There is a calendar in my room with a picture of two pigs. The caption at the bottom of their page tells me their names are Seamus and Lawrence and that they live on a farm in rural England. Sometimes, I try to imagine what meeting them would be like. . .

Sunrays illuminate the endless field. The air smells of morning dew and daisies. Faintly I can hear the animals in the barn, and the farmer ringing the breakfast bell. I sit down on a small hill so I can watch the barn from a distance. The dew gets the hems of my dress wet, and the cool mist rises goosebumps across my legs. The farmer walks to the gate and it springs open, unleashing a herd of piglets. They run out the gate as fast as their tiny legs can carry them, dispersing into the field. I can hear them squeal with joy as they roll onto the grass and nibble on the flowers in the field. I laugh, and get up and run down the hill towards the piglets. The grass tickles my ankles and my hair whips behind my head. As I get towards the herd, I can see Seamus and Lawrence leading the pack, wearing the same hounds tooth caps they are wearing in the photograph. While the other pigs snuffle around in the dirt, Seamus and Lawrence keep running until they meet me at the bottom of the hill. I fall to my knees to greet them and they rub their felted hats and small warm bodies against my lap. And finally, I fall on my back and close my eyes, the sun on my face and the earth on my back. As I fall asleep on the morning grass, Seamus and Lawrence stay by my side.

I wander through the park slowly, surveying the lush, fragrant flowers and enjoying the soft summer breeze rippling through my hair. I’ve walked this path countless times before, and yet the peace I find in this secluded clearing brings me the same contentment it did the first time we stumbled across it. As I arrive at our bench, the worn brown wood starting to sag after all its years in the elements, I pop a piece of my Opa’s favorite gum into my mouth. The icy tang brings me back all those months ago, and I can almost see him sitting next to me, the spice of mint floating off of his tongue, telling me about his time in Vietnam. He would always keep those dark glasses on, hiding his blind eyes from the world. He never wanted to scare anyone with their glassy, far-off appearance, but I thought they were beautiful.

I listen to the birds chirp around me, the cicadas buzz. I feel the grass tickle my ankles, and a lady bug crawl its way up my leg. And I see the clouds. Oh how my grandfather loved hearing about clouds. I rest my head back against the bench, look up, and begin to whisper. I describe how today they are voluminous and fluffy, so white they appear to be marshmallows floating against the bright blue sky. I murmur about how one looks like a round donkey, another a rather fat caterpillar. I count two flowers, and I babble about a clunky-looking train. I sit here for a good half an hour, talking about the clouds. Tears roll down my cheeks when I think about how now it’s only me listening.

The early morning dew stuck to the grass like small diamonds across a bracelet

Each sparkling with its own magnificent beauty

The only sound in range is that of the young dog

Running through the grass

Leaving lines of disturbed shrubbery as a map of her explorations

With each passing step into the field another wave of calmness descends over me

The hundreds of thousands of things to think about

Are suddenly further and further away

And less and less important

As I watch over the small border collie enjoying her play

I can’t help but smile at the purity of this moment

When the world is still waking

And the list of all the things that need to be done hasn’t been formed yet

So we wander further into the large field

Stopping at every puff of grass

Wondering at every hole as to its maker.

But the world cannot sleep the day away

And soon we must go back

Back to the duties we have

And the goals we pursue

To the work that is never ending

And to the liveliness of others

Yet still I wait every day

To the moment where I can steal away

To the quiet peace

And the tranquil calm of the early morning dew

The cold fog settles into a frown

My lungs pinch

I can’t see beyond my hands

But it doesn’t matter: there is no one around

I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest

Like I’m giving myself a hug

My warm breath fills the space in between

And I start to hum a tune

I have a bitter taste in my mouth

So I think of honey and cake

And candy

It fades away

I notice my empty hands starting to go numb

So I rub them together to create some sort of heat

It’s not like my mother’s warmth

But it’ll do

I begin to wonder about the world

I am such a small being among many

This makes me feel sad

I stop wondering

My hands become numb again

No amount of rubbing will keep them warm

I reach for the grass, tearing at the roots

The green smell replaces the bitter air

I wonder if it hurts

The grass, I mean

But does it matter?

There’s so much of it

I imagine the grass is crying

Its roots are bleeding onto my hands

Its blades bend every which way

And the clumps sit in piles around me

I start to feel guilty

But realize there’s no reason to

This is silly

So I begin to stand up

But I hesitate

And sit back down

I am the grass

And the grass is me

So I continue to pull

Not because I want to hurt it

But because I know it doesn’t matter

Time seems to pause as I stop in the middle of a busy crosswalk. The city lights flash bright green, red, yellow, white—they blind my eyes in colorful fireworks. The sounds of blaring sirens from a nearby fire truck seem to wake me up. I run along the rest of the crosswalk hearing the angry cries of drivers behind me. I gasp, panting for air. ​Oh universe, give me a break. ​I lean against the brick wall, a blur of scents wafting by me: cinnamon, fish, cigar smoke, sweat, trash, and that faint chemical smell that lingers near a rundown workshop. I smell the sickly sweet smell that wafts over the towering, twinkling buildings, a smell that I despise even after all these years.

God, how I used to love this place. The romanticized life in the city, the hope, the hustle and bustle, the opportunities—did I really think I was part of something big, something special? There isn't anything remaining for me here, not anymore. I stare into the distance as the twilight turns into dusk. The evening crowds start to thin out as nighttime approaches. Crowds fill the area to the brim, hand pushing and shoving wherever you go. The cheering of partiers feels like screams in my ears. I can't feel, I can't think. My hands touch the gravely asphalt floor as I’m pushed over and stepped on like a cockroach.

Why am I even here? I’m an outsider on the inside, invisible to the joys of the city, yet I’m still here. The city I had always admired, one that filled me with hope. ​I can’t leave, this is home. Right? ​Is—Is this really home?

My eyes open to a clear blue sky, my body splayed across warm, grainy sand. I look around, and the view steals my breath. Coconuts hang off of leafy palm trees that tower above me, the vibrant blue waves racing to touch my feet as the sea-salt scent of the ocean fills my lungs. The seemingly endless water shimmers as the sun rises over the horizon, and I hear the seagulls cawing as they fly. Flower petals fall like rain. I stand up and walk away from the water and towards the tree line as the familiar scent of delicious pav bhaji hits me. I break into a sprint as I run through the dense jungle, nothing but vines and lush greenery surrounding me, inhaling the sweet fragrance of flowers. I enter the village, leaving the jungle behind me.

No matter how many times I see this, it never fails to astonish me. The village center bustles, but that is not what I’m looking at. I tilt my head up towards the lush green mountains and I can vaguely make out our Majicans training. Our water-benders raise frothy waves at their will, lifting entire sections of the sea at once, with enough power to create a tsunami. Our grounders can grow trees in seconds, and even create earthquakes. The burners do target practice, throwing flaming fireballs and dancing with the flames, as though they are one. Our wind-weavers raise themselves high above the mountains, flying through the air gracefully, though they could blow away entire armies with a flick of their wrists. Our healers heal people in our infirmaries, praised as ‘the saviors of our kind. ’ Then there is me. I’m an Ethereal; the only Ethereal alive. I am the creator of life, and the bringer of death.

Foolish is this weary heart of mine

Why must it tempt me so?

Attaching itself to a fruitless prospect,

My fantastically impossible imagination.

Oh, if only the stars aligned,

And you saw me how I see you.

Brilliant and dazzling,

Our love so powerful and true.

Truly, for you, I would do everything.

And in every heartache,

I would hold you so, doing all I could,

To ease your pain away.

But I am too weak

And my affections fall short.

It is not my place,

Nor do I have the words to speak.

And so here I sit,

Awaiting the fateful moment,

Wherein you finally see,

Me and all my love.

I feel stuck

In an endless cycle of everything

But nothing at the same time

So I look out the window

Hoping for a change

Maybe it’ll rain

It’s been weeks since I’ve been outside

But I can’t bring myself to leave

I’m safe in here

So there’s no need to risk anything

But I start to forget

What it’s like to laugh

To talk

And to lose

Nothing is changing

Nothing is happening

So why do I feel so lost?

It’s like I’m trapped in my own body

And I don’t know where to go

My mind starts to hurt

Maybe I should stop thinking about things like this It will only make me sad

But then I hear soft pitter-patters against my window And I start to smile

The NERVE to subject someone to this kind of emotional torture astounds me.

I watched the Up movie a grand total of one (1) time, after literal DAYS of careful preparation. I looped the Up music so I would be desensitized to it by the time it actually played. I watched technically-illegal footage of all the sad scenes COUNTLESS times. I read dozens of paragraphs that picked apart exactly why the beginning montage was so depressingly sad. I thought, stupidly, that I was FULLY prepared for Ellie’s death and the resulting sad moments. “Haha,” said I, skipping merrily into the movie theater, “Surely that movie won’t have any effect on me. I Am Prepared.”

I was, clearly, a fool. As soon as the movie started playing, baby-Ellie and baby-Carl finkled, dinkled, and shminkled their way into everyone’s hearts. I knew this would happen, priding myself on staying stone-faced. Then, my biggest foe approached. The marriage montage. Old-timey-sounding music started playing, and everyone was fine. 20 seconds later, everyone was NOT FINE. Ellie sawing a wooden plank became Ellie sawing into our hearts. The balloon cart floating away became our hopes and dreams floating into the clouds.

THE NURSERY/HOSPITAL ROOM SCENE. I refuse to elaborate.

The series of accidents forcing Carl and Ellie to smash open that change jar felt like the movie was just TAUNTING us at that point. The jar was our feelings, and the animators at Pixar were the hammer. Carl’s sadness as he realizes Ellie never got to go to Paradise Falls PERFECTLY matched our despair, except we couldn’t just buy plane tickets to Venezuela to fix it. As he walked with Ellie up the hill, I mentally steeled myself for the inevitable, knowing half the people around me were likely doing the same. It was all in vain. More people cried at her digital funeral than there were viewers at the 2016 Summer Olympics.

The room was a sniffling mess as the rest of the movie played, pausing only to cackle in glee as the stupid Muntz man fell to his undoubtedly painful death. The movie ended. Everyone filed slowly outside, looking incredibly similar to a group of zombie ants, or maybe a squad of squid displaced onto a forest floor. As I walked out of the theater that day, I vowed to never think about Up again. The vengeful Pixar gods, however, had other plans. “Married Life” played on a loop in my head for about a week after, each twinkling note like a poorly-carved spear aimed straight at my brain. I was going insane.

Finally, after WEEKS of musical earworm suffering, I forgot about it. I had won my battle against Up. I thought I would never have to watch a second of that wretched movie ever again. So, imagine my surprise when months later, as I click on the “Memory Moment” tab in this homework assignment, I find myself face-to-face with the spawn of my fallen enemy, frothing at the mouth for revenge, whispering “c’mon, press play, you know ya gotta.” I can’t believe I was forced to sit through 3 minutes of bone-aching sadness and crippling regret for a school assignment. I had managed to bury the trauma for MONTHS, and this has brought it all back. I will now rewatch the movie and begin the cycle once more. I cannot escape.