In the basement of my parent’s home when I was growing up we had an upright piano

Abandoned by the previous owners

It was too heavy to move when they left

Reluctantly my family allowed it to stay

We were poor hosts

She claimed she always wanted another child

My mother insisted on music lessons for us even though the same thing had been forced on her

She blamed the piano

Instead I endured so many horrible years of flute lessons

Pretending to play by hovering my fingers above the keys were happily ended by braces on my teeth

I would sneak into the piano’s room and run my fingers down the keyboard like a jazz player

Certain keys responded with a dull, heavy, hollow sound

She was never in tune or repaired

We wrote on the keys in magic marker knowing that she couldn’t defend herself

My pet rabbits chewed on her legs

The veneer peeled off the side like dandruff due to a nervous condition

We would play records in the same basement room

Did she think proximity was akin to love?

She slumbered in silence taking up so much quiet space in the basement corner

I had forgotten about her until today

When she just popped into my head reflexively

Like when I think that I left the curling iron on in the bathroom

She currently resides in the haunted basement of my parent’s home

The focus of mother’s dementia is a young girl named Gemma who invades their basement at night to plant bombs, sell drugs, and generally torment her

Too bad Gemma doesn’t play the piano

It must be a conflict between art and terrorism