I miss having a piano around. I haven’t touched a keyboard in years.

My first piano was an old thing, bought used—quite likely twice or three times over. It was a mahogany-hued upright piano with a godawful amber-colored plastic covering that looked like cheap decorative glass. I remember pieces of that plastic monstrosity falling off as we drove home with the piano riding in a U-Haul trailer behind us. There I was, nine years old, looking out the back window of the van and watching the flying pieces of plastic cause a wave of swerving cars behind us.

The keys were definitely not ivory. The white had been scraped off and replaced with some ugly yellowing material. In fact, a couple of the keys didn’t have anything at all, what with the glue having worn off underneath the fake ivory.

…which was fine by me. Honestly.

But it didn’t stop there. A couple of those same keys didn’t even work. They never made a sound upon the first strike, and upon the second strike, they might make some muted tone just barely reminiscent of the notes they were born to make. Almost every song I played on that cursed thing was like a song sung by a young choir boy with a cracking voice.

I remember hating it. My piano teacher would come over and make me play on that thing over and over again, and those missing notes would frustrate me to no end. I kept wishing that the lesson would be over and that my teacher would go away. I simply couldn’t stand the damn thing, and it made me hate playing.

Fortunately for me, my second piano was an improvement. It was an old oak-colored upright grand that used to be a player piano, also previously owned. The mechanism that made it a player piano no longer worked, but it still played beautifully as a regular piano. It was certainly sturdier, all the keys worked fine, and I had a blast just pounding on those keys as I played whatever fancied me.

I would open up the front and watch the hammers hit the strings, or I’d step on the pedals and watch the dampers move. Even my cat enjoyed hiding inside the thing; it was a great, big, cavernous structure, and it made me like to play. It still lives at my mother’s house, probably left mostly untouched since I’m the only one in the family who plays.

But here, where I live… nothing. No piano. No keyboard that isn’t a computer keyboard, and I haven’t practiced playing in years. If I could have my way, I’d have a big house with a room reserved especially for piano playing. I’d have one of those sprawling grand pianos—maybe a baby grand, but not an upright. It would be sleek and black and brand spanking new.

If not, I’d settle for an electronic keyboard, but I absolutely must have 88 keys. Anything less is a handicapped keyboard that would cut my meager repertoire in half.

Good God. What’s happened to me? If my piano teacher had told me I’d end up like this, I never would have believed her, but…

*Sigh* I really, truly miss having a piano around.

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