PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It was comfortable to hear him play again. My grandfather could play all day long his various instruments. A rusted trumpet, a bizarre accordion, some untuned guitars, a tiny ukulele, a dusty sax, a shiny harmonica, my grandfather could played all of those and more, but his all time favorite (mine as well) was his classical piano. That wooden beauty could produce melodies so marvelous it could make the sun come out on rainy days. My brother and I always watched him played for hours and hours. His repertoire was simply endless. He could play with his best friend with his eyes closed and never, not a single time, make a mistake. My uncle said he was like a puppet master, but I think quite the opposite. Sir Angel didn´t control the piano, that black lustrous 88 key being was the one in command. My grandpa treated her with ultimate respect. Just like a holy knight serves his princess, Mr. Angel would obediently caress all those white and black petals just like a wind current graces a field of dandelions where all those magical samples gracefully enter your ears whether you like or not, and subdues you with euphoria. Everything comes back to normal the moment he stops his ritual. How does he does it? How is it possible for him to turn a simple instrument, as old as himself, practically immortal, into something that resembles magic? I wish I knew. All the other babies must be jealous from the Queen's special treatment. It's not like he doesn't pay them any attention. Sir Angel just happens to excel with her favorite girl. His talent could be compared to professionals. He could make a living only playing the piano. He was that good, but wasn’t interested in money or any other compensation for doing what he loved. He probably didn't want his passion to become his job. Imagining something he loved being taken away was probably his one and only fear. I didn't asked him, I didn´t cared as long as he was happy. Was her Queen happy? That was obvious when cries of joy spread along the house, the neighbor’s house, and his neighbor’s house. Ears popped, steps slowed, talks shushed, all this happen when old pop´s ten long silk fingers danced elegantly. With each stroke, with each note, he silently quote, “Without music, life would be a mistake”.