Koestler

My carpets were steam-clean spotless the last time I came to your house.

It felt weird being there without you.

Somebody was trying to cook something on your stove and it smelled wrong.

Every button told a story, every marble brought a memory.

We had to count and clean all of them because we weren’t selling dirt after all.

I brought home the suitcase that you used to teach us how to play music.

We sang Your Cheatin’ Heart and played Heart and Soul together.

You made the keyboard big enough for four hands.

I put it on the living room floor next to my piano.

I would open it up and play along when one of my friends felt like striking a few chords on the old upright.

Now the dogs get quiet and stare in surprise when I play for them.

I picked up your suitcase and wiped off the dust.

There is a clean spot on the carpet underneath.

West German air blows out of both holes when you open up the stops.

The fan is squeaking and I think it won’t be long till it stops spinning altogether.

There’s no Bach or hymns left in my empty head tonight.

Just A Love That Will Never Grow Old.

I love that it smells like a musty suitcase and sounds like the biggest harmonica in the world.

The keys are so tiny that I can almost get two octaves with my left hand.

You can still see the fading letters that were taped on C, F, and G for the kids.

It sure has been a long time.