The sun squeezes through the tiny square in the upper corner of the practice room. I sit on the dusty tile floor.
I watch her setup notes for today.
The beady black spots on the white paper look like tiny crows sitting in an irregular row on a telephone line.
The pink gem in her ring catches a ray of sun and glints back at anyone that looks. Her fingers stumble and trip over the white and black keys of the grand piano.
Taking her hands off the keys she sighs in frustration. Exhaling the negative thoughts away, she brings forth her digits to the piano once more.
Her pinky can’t reach the highest notes, the ones needed to complete the cadenza she’ll someday need to play.
Despite the challenge, she repeats the chords over and over, until the movements become automatic like fingers typing away at a keyboard.
Behind the closed doors of her mind, she plays and pours the melodies like wine into the glass that is the audience.
Someday her name will be known, but for now I watch the young musician from the corner of the room fight the ivories.