My father always said that his piano was part of him. All day he played, humming out tunes, scratching on the scrap-book and playing out pieces he’d just made up. He’d forget to eat and sleep until exhaustion caught up on him like a sneaky robber in the dark. He died there on that stool. We found him with his head resting on the keys.
My theory is that the piano devoured my father’s soul, because how do you explain the fact that the piano is still playing to this day; the keys rising and falling, playing out my father’s compositions?
For Friday Fictioneers.