It’s day one—the beginning,
I eagerly wait and see,
Whose skill will dance upon my floor,
And prove themselves worthy,

Whoever has the passion,
The will to dream and strive,
Shall be my next companion,
My friend, my muse, my guide

Untouched for many years now,
The dust—slowly collects,
The pain of past experiences,
Lost love, betrayal, regret,

Muffled noises from the outside,
Cause my heart to pang within,
Warm fingers run along my shell,
I feel myself cave in.

A crack of light and a suddenly,
She opens my top; peering through,
She dusts my surface carefully,
Old keys—refined, once new,

A small hand extends and pierces a note,
Which takes me by surprise,
Who is this child, this amateur,
Who tests my talent and lies,

They promised me a genius,
A prodigy at most,
Now I’m stuck with this beginning seven year old,
And Kingsbury gets to boast.

Her tiny hands attempt a fifth,
But fail to get nearly far,
This is humiliating to watch her struggle so much,
This embarrassment is going to scar,

Although I expected the best,
And not a wanna-be Debussy,
I’ve realize that I’ll have to learn with this strange new girl,
The two of us in harmony,

She’ll struggle to hit a few certain keys,
But she’ll learn to work in depth,
Her path to musical success has just begun now,
A path of 88 tiny steps.

Grace Pating ’18