the piano teacher

there is a room
filled with haphazard books
some artifacts from china
and a bench i had to raise
so that i could reach
the keys.
i still go there
in my dreams
at night when my mind chooses
to remember
instead of
to invent.
my hands fall
on ivory
fingers pointed correctly
wrists up
up
higher
high enough to play
debussy 
and then
beethoven.
it was supposed to be a dining room
but the clink of silverware and stemware
never filled it.
instead there were those like me
in the middle of memorizing sonatas
dropped off by our parents
who
relished the hour to themselves.
sitting awkwardly next to
her
with her huffing
and heavy sighs
brought on with great effort
each time we struck
the wrong note.
knowing nothing about us
other than
how much we practiced
or didn't
the week before.
noticing only that i
was withering
away
when my fingers became
so delicate
i could hardly
play loud enough
to be heard.