They told her,
And turned off the Beethoven playing on the radio.
And she would smile,
And act like it was ok,
That she was told her dreams where useless,
And would in end failure.
From the time she could play,
And find security in the white and black keys,
She had been told,
Because failure was not acceptable,
And trying wasn’t worth it.
But when nobody was home,
She would turn the radio channel on,
And let her fingers run wild across the keys,
Trying to copy the work of the greats.
At night when everyone was in bed,
She would bring out the old book of music,
With yellowed pages,
The edges slowly crumbling into dust.
And she would trace her finger over each name,
And each note,
Savoring it as if she could hear it her head.
Bach, Mendelssohn, Dvorak, Mozart,
And the other greats.
Sometimes she would peer longingly,
To the door of the music room,
To hear each note hit in perfect harmony,
By each student.
And how she longed to be there,
Up on stage,
Instead in a big empty house,
Playing the same songs in the silence.
And every time,
She inched in a little further,
Towards the unknown,
With velvet chairs,
And blue curtains.
Until at last,
She walked up,
And let it all go.
It was just the music and her,
With big dreams.