My piano is dusty.
And on it is fake Monet with grass in a quiet blue blaze and my unused keys, a set only worthy of a janitor’s belt. The dust just means that I choose better things: watching Titus’ head become a little less bobbly. The keys mean that I collect things, that I tend to hoard.
There’s a brass one there that doesn’t fit in any lock. It says “GM FD” – George Mouk, Front Door. That’s to a door to the bayou home sold out of the family after our Patriarch crossed the veil.
Out of the vibrant blue, my 3 year old walks between me and my computer. “Granddad’s not sick any more,” he says. He’s thinking, nonchalant, factual.
I stroke his hair, kiss his dirty face.
Get up and stir the beans. Tell the boys to wash their hands again. Wonder, where is Poland.
Life is not all heat, all dirty talk and bang bang. It’s mostly quiet. Sense the flickering – look at it – how we’re just here glowing a tiny while – blue, yellow, red – before going out,
how if we’re doing well, we’re a torch passed down.
It’s in my hands right now. Glow of licking flame, a wooden spoon, some keys.
So I stroke the hair. I watch them grow into their heads. I slick them back.