The Last Note

By David J Nolan III

A piano sits among the charred framing of the house from which we took shelter. The ash matches the dark keys, but few still proudly show white. The memory of sitting on my father’s lap as he played symphonies is being replaced by the demolished atrocity in front of me. This negative thought gives way to more recent times of shouting matches throughout the house. My father was always right; he always won. As I reach down to depress a key, the silence that follows is my muse. The smell of gasoline on my jacket is confirmation that I have won.