(In memory of Margery Thompson)

On the last day, before your daughter
turned your house over to people who
would go through every drawer,

as we had, pull out everything saleable
from closets and cupboards, assign
value to each item, then donate

or throw away the rest, I sat at your piano—
the creamy Baldwin baby grand that your
beloved bought you after the two of you

moved into the house three decades
ago. I lifted the fallboard over the keys
that looked back at me, unblinking.

I wanted to play something lovely,
but your sheet music had been bagged,
your binders of music and hymnals boxed,

so my fingers noodled through scales,
attempted some chords. I watched
the strings sheltered by the open lid

leap at the touch of the hammers,
and the ghosts of pianists wafted out,
those who’d sat on the pink velvet

bench and played all manner of etudes,
hymns and jazz—and on one memorable
night, my favorite Gershwin concert waltz

by a famous jazz pianist whom we all
loved. And you, too, rose with the notes,
floating into the empty living room

where you hosted so many parties
and family gatherings, where last
Christmas you gave us the best gift—

you, one last time—which we could
not fit into any of the dozens of boxes
we carted away to live with us.

But we carried you with us as we
flicked off the lights, locked the
back door one last time, saying

goodbye, then turned to see you
and your beloved standing in
that doorway, as you had

a thousand times, waving us off
into our lives—ta, ta for now!—
the strings of our hearts pulled

taut, the notes dissolving into
a gentle pianissimo before they
drifted gently into the good night.

•••

And in memory of so many who played Margery Thompson’s
lovely Baldwin piano—among them Rev. Harvey Chinn
and jazz pianist Bob Ringwald.