By: Marissa Vicchio

Days on end, I speak beautifully,

producing sounds of anger, happiness, and fear,

but that is up to Elle.

Some days I want to feel happy and joyful,

producing cheerful noises,

but that is not up to me.

Elle is my best friend.

Every time she moves her warm and gentle fingers up and down my greasy and stiff keyboard,

I can always hear her fingers touching and tapping to the music.

Tomorrow I turn 107 years old.

My ivory keys are slowly turning yellow,

and some of my keys are hard and stiff,

needing maintenance and tuning,

but I still produce elegant music.

This past year Elle has rarely visited me,

but I patiently sit still waiting.

All I hear is the time ticking and tocking, as if it is slowly getting louder trying to haunt me.

I become anxious and scared,

wondering if Elle will come and visit.

I long to see Elle’s face one last time before she goes off to college,

but that is not up to me.