Note: Last night at Write On, we read a story from the point
of view of a scarecrow. After our discussion, we had free writing time where we
each accepted the challenge of writing from the perspective of something not human.
This is pretty rough, but an interesting idea.
He pieced me together with glue and finishing nails, gently
placed my soundboard, tightened the strings, and aligned the ivory keys. He
hummed while he worked, the sort of German hymns preferred by Martin Luther,
using his voice to tune my heart. I loved him so.
I suppose he was my father and mother, things I wouldn't
have understood at the time. He was my creator, and I was just his creation.
I remember little else about him.
***
I was loaded on a truck, cast away from creator after all my
keys were place, all my strings tuned, all the little felt hammers ready to
strike so that I could sing.
Wrapped in bedding and towels and a huge tarp, every bump
hurt me, altered me.
It was dark for a long time.
***
Then there was a ship and water, and there were rats on the
boat. One lived briefly under my feet. It's tiny heartbeat reverberating in the
grains of wood of my body.
If I could play myself, such a tune would that have
inspired.
***
Back on a truck. More hurting.
***
Home became a small room off a Lutheran sanctuary in some
little town in Illinois. The floors were cold, the ceilings high, and occasionally
a little mouse would tap across my keys at night.
Ms. Joy Parnuckle played me then. Her arthritic fingers
unevenly pressing my keys, the hammers falling at imprecise times, my tune
garbled, yet the children sang along. There round faces beaming at Ms.
Parnuckle, mouths open, tongues clicking, their voices fluttering about the
pitch and tone intended.
It wasn't the best playing of my life, but it was joyful.
***
Sometimes young Howard Edgecliffe would sneak into my home.
Sit at the bench before me and something exhilarating followed. His long
fingers with soft pads would glide across me, knowing just where and when to
strike.
Oh, the sound. He played without music, sometimes I think he
played without knowing what song would come out. Music flowed through him like
sun rays through a stained-glass window, casting brilliant shades of color in
every direction.
I wanted to tell him about the mouse on the ship because I
knew he would understand. I knew he would play the sound of life in that little
heartbeat.
***
Howard grew older, moved away for a time, and when he returned,
he was changed. A scar ruined one side of his face, and his hands. Oh, his hands.
They shook violently, so much so, that my strings vibrated when he came near.
But he never played me again. Never even touched me.
***
Ms. Parnuckle gave way to Helen Lampkin, a nervous young
girl, who played adequately but with no real emotion. Even so, she gave lessons
twice a week to unruly children, who pounded my keys and would carve their
initials into my body whenever she left the room.
Those carvings still burn. They almost burn as much as
losing Howard.
***
Helen Lampkin was there a long time, growing from a nervous
young girl to a strained woman with a burly husband and half-witted children.
Fewer children took lessons. Fewer children came to the church on Sundays.
***
After Helen, there was a procession of young mothers. None
of them played. Instead, they set a plastic tape player atop me, pushed a
button, and mechanical hymns sounded out. The children's voices repeated, their
voices sounding like machines, too.
My strings sagged, my keys yellowed, and a chill settled in
my body.
***
No one comes in my little room anymore. My keys are covered.
My body is chipped and dried. There’s ancient bubblegum decaying on my
backside. The old men snicker about firewood when they see me.
I wonder what my creator would think if he saw me now.
