Abandoned pianos keep appearing on our street. Nobly they stand, shivering under snow blankets and dreaming of sonatas gone by.
The first one still had its keys and I hammered out a little something one glistening morning, just to make it feel special. It sounded like a box of broken bottles. Pianos aren’t meant to live in the wild; they lose their voices.
The second one was already in pieces.
My battered old Bentley upright keeps begging for us to let the homeless one in the house. I wish we could, but there’s no way we’d get another one up those stairs. And you can get rabies from feral pianos, which it very well knows.
Who are these people, leaving their pianos to pedal on their own in the street? Are they impulse buyers? Do they wake up one morning with a bad hangover, no memory of the night before and a piano in the kitchen wearing a traffic cone? You can do something sublime with an instrument that ekes your soul out of your fingers, one note at a time: don’t they know what that means?
Readers, please. A piano is for life, not just for Chopsticks.