She sat and listened
while her grandmother played the keys.
“Why do you play if you’re not on a stage
for an audience of no one but me?”
The notes were raw,
her troubled jaw relaxed to let her speak.
“Sorry love, it hurts me still,
my joints have grown so weak.
But I digress, good grief, God bless.
You asked me why I play?
I do not care how many hear me,
honestly I’ll say.
I care how many truly listen,
for them I won’t regret it.
One thousand folks who won’t remember,
but you will not forget it.”
The girl sat and thought a moment,
then the music came.
“But every time you play the keys
to me it sounds the same.”
Laughter came without a thought,
and then her quick reply.
“One day I think the notes, my love,
perhaps might make you cry.”