The Day My Mother Sold My Piano
The day my mother sold my piano,
I felt her uproot my veins and hold my
fingers hostage. And suddenly,
the clouds that looked like personified dreams
just yesterday became fish spines and
rib cages—hollow music staffs. The clear sky
that looked like soft, blue silk became empty
sheet music—lonely pages with no
song to sing.
I stood in the shadow of my piano, wrists
unshackled, but fingers torn from the
stem like plucked daisies. I’ve heard
of musicians who wished to hook their
fingers into the atriums of their hearts:
to pump music from their organs, just as
how one breathes through an accordion.
I unraveled my arteries and strew
them along worn, stained songs. My
tissues became time signatures and
my capillaries morphed into cadenzas.
I found melodies in my skin and
harmonies in my muscles. Learnt the whispers
of my lungs. Dissected my body into a hall
Your eyelashes are the fibers of violin strings.
Your taste buds are the brass keys
of a saxophone. Your body is just as
wondrous as Beethoven’s symphonies. You
are Music: worthy of worship.
Cynthia Wang is a seventeen-year-old high school senior at Shanghai American School Pudong from Shanghai, China. A self-declared bookworm and diagnosed philosophy addict, Cynthia spends her free time writing for her blog Quotidian Musings. Otherwise, one would find her blinking away her lack of sleep—a common characteristic found in fellow IB diploma victims. Above all, she hopes that one day, she could break through her culture of silence—that one day, through her words, her voice might be heard.