My little room 

at the end of the hall.

It is a home 

converted into 

a piano studio. 

Small hands walk in 

held by 

tiny bodies,

their mothers’ sweet perfume,

jagged bangs,

crooked glasses,

baby teeth,

and high pitched laughter. 

I look at memories from the vault that I forgot were already stored in my mind, 

see myself through my piano students,

watch the high-pitched giggles return. 

In memoriam of who I once was

I still carry her around with me.

I speak enthusiasm 

though they speak timidity back.

Melody and accompaniment.

Small hands walk in 

held by 

my louder right hand.

With them,  I think of childhood.

I tell them I was always a late learner.

Timid voices 

grow into 

germ-filled hugs.

I willingly take them all

as an embrace

Of trust.

One day

small hands will walk out

and I will 

look at memories from the vault that I forgot were already stored in my mind, 

see myself through my piano students,

watch the high-pitched giggles return. 

In memoriam of who I once was

I still carry her around with me.

As I hold 

the small hands that walk into

my little room 

at the end of the hall.

It is a piano studio

converted into 

a home.