I hope you learn how to hold your own hand.

I watched you sink down the wall and curl in on yourself. I watched your eyes go past the faces and soundproof walls. You were thinking about your friends. You say that their sadness is a cancer.  

For a few moments you were happy when your fingers tickled ivory.  For a few moments your worry went into remission.  The song sounded like your sisters laughing.  The song sounded like a happy "I love you" after a busy day. The song sounded like your parents' praise. "We're so proud of you".

One week later I saw you with a bundle of sheets and a large down comforter. You carried them in your arms. You were hugging a fluffy mountain of future. 

You’re going to live in a piano, you tell me. 

Initially I doubt you, but when I drop by your apartment a week later, I see the large cherry wood Grand where your bed used to be.  You invite five close friends over one stifling March afternoon. 

We eat Ritz crackers with sliced cheddar cheese.  We make small talk.  You wear your mother’s pearls. 

I brought a simple houseplant and you put it by the right pedal.  In Japan, plants are considered symbolic of a lucky household.  You tell me that, and I wonder if this is a housewarming party or a grand delusion.

You stopped showing up to dinners, and outings.  You didn’t come to coffee and you declined a movie marathon. You disabled your facebook your twitter, your instagram.  

I began to wonder if you had Wifi in your new home. I wanted to hold your hand so I invited myself over.  I brought you sheet music, a feeble attempt, and offering of friendship.  You plucked piano strings instead of speaking.  You played your favorite song for me. You said the vibrations tumbled through your body and smoothed you the way a wave makes glass less deadly. 

You left the piano after two and a half months.  You could have stayed longer, but you said you’d learned every song ever made,  that the music was making you too round. 

You missed ridges. You missed the sharpness of human life beyond a musical symbol. 

We took a cheap bus from Chinatown to Upstate New York.  We climbed a mountain and you stood on the top,  arms outstretched.  You were tumbled-smooth sea glass.  I watched the sunset shine through you.  You take bit of sky and space and sound filter them through your fingers,  and feed them to me when I’m sad. 

When you die I’ll bury you in a piano box. I’ll paper it with sheet music, bits of shell and a picture of Grand Central’s ceiling. In the spring, flower will bloom from your grave all the colors of the sky  and the birds will eat the seed and sing of your beauty.  A little boy will watch this all and feel happy enough to hold his own hand.