I used to shyly play the piano at my grandparents’ house. I’d plink down on the highest note. The key needed repair. I’d press the deepest note. And run my fingers over all the keys. No one really played the piano. It was a pretty dark thing in their living room, a giant table for a lamp.
I’d sit on the stool and spin until the seat was tight or wobbly and then back. My parents still have the stool in their attic. It has claw feet that grab a glass ball each. I don’t miss the piano. I am glad we still have the stool.