©2019 by Canvas Literary Journal

Published by Cosmographia Books

Background art “Camouflage” by Hyung Jin Lee

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The Day My Mother Sold My Piano

Cynthia Wang

Autumn 2019

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

of honor.

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.