Paulette and the Piano
Softly, softly Paulette, creep up on your dream. Don’t let sense in. Don’t tell it your plan. You know, as sure as eggs are eggs, that common thief will steel away your dream. Chase it away like all the others. This time Paulette, it’s your turn. Make it happen. Scratch that lifelong itch.
You’re not a child anymore, a naughty, embarrassing child with sticky fingers. Sticky grubby paws that leave, sticky grubby marks. “Don’t touch, Paulette.” “No, Paulette. No!” And all these years later that urge to touch, to lift that lid, to feel…. is as strong as ever, but now you know why you shouldn’t, mustn’t, can’t. A grown woman who has never played a note in her life? Why, they’d laugh at you, think you simple. It’s not yours, it’s not polite, and it’s not done.
But Paulette, you know there is a way, don’t you? Just do it, Paulette. It’s nobody else’s business, it’s your money, throw it away if you want. Buy yourself a bloody piano! So what if you can’t play? You can still touch. Still lift that lid, sit on that velvet- covered stool. You can feel, running your fingertips lightly across the keys, you can see what happens when you press that key, or that key. See what happens when you press that pedal. You can feel the smooth surface of the case, admire the rosewood, polish it and no one can say “No!”
No, Paulette, don’t think about it too much. Don’t let sense hear your plan, don’t let sense steal your dream.