The Piano

The first time I saw a piano, I was five years old. The ghostly upright, with its black and yellow teeth in need of brushing, stood silently in the empty living room, covered with dark, thick, scrolls; abandoned by its previous owner. When I touched one of its jagged teeth it spoke to me in a manner as soft as my touch. I pressed another and it grumbled low, almost frightening. When my little fingers danced at the other end it laughed like a tiny bird. One day I helped my mother clean and polish the neglected piano. Before long, the dull wood looked like milk chocolate, and its yellowed teeth turned ivory white; it smiled, and we've been the best friends since.