There once lived an organist whose heart mingled with music.
His long fingers blessed the organ,
and the sound of honey blossomed in the air,
notes melting into harmonies overflowing from his heart
until his own organs stopped taping along,
and his silence was buried next to the church.

His son was a banker;
his heart laid less vulnerable to music
his passion for music was an octave lower.

But how his love for his wife sang!
And with his elegant fingers,
his love poured out of the pianola
And she gently shut her eyes,
a beaming smile,
the happiness of her soul only given away
by the tapping along of her foot.

And through the sweet music
produced their only son,
Who only scored a grade 5
in the scale of love.
A quirky boy, he loved a bit of jazz, a bit of life.

His slender fingers were bouncy and playful,
his music chimed loudly and free,
just like his own spirit.
He showed his daughter
how to play “frè-re jac-que”
and to shout  “ding-dang-dong!”

Now I stare at my own slender fingers,
perfect piano-player’s hands.
I wonder, did I inherit that musical gene?
Am I in-tune with my father?

Curiosity is humming inside me.
An ache.
I despise the pianola’s sad out-of tune character.
I stroke the keys cautiously,
Pressing each soft, honey-coloured note
and my soul sings.

Filled with life, I open up and bleed.
My sad voice seems happier.
I feel heavy lust; the pianola’s sweet voice called me over.
My heart is one half-note away from falling in love.


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