The parlor stays dark these nights. My wife works the overnight shift at the county hospital, so I'm the one who comes in from the barn at midnight and makes sure the lights are off.
Her mother's piano sits against the far wall. Nobody has played it in four years, not since the funeral. The keys are yellowed, and one of the middle C's is stuck down.
I took off my work gloves before I came inside. There's a hole worn through the thumb on the right one. I keep meaning to patch it, but I never do.
Earlier tonight at the feed store, I ran into Gary. He's the beer league commissioner for the county. Told me their team made playoffs. I smiled and nodded, but my mind was on the piano.
It's strange what you think about after midnight. I never learned to play. Neither did my wife. Her mother was the only one. Now the silence fills up the whole room.
I ran my hand across the lid tonight. Felt the dust. Thought about calling my wife on her break, but I didn't want to bother her.
Maybe I'll find someone to tune it. Or maybe it's okay that it stays quiet. Some things don't need to make a sound to matter.