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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Friendship · #1921623
Thin rail, held up by wires, wind blowing through copper, the color of her hair, ...
Final chords

         for Myrt

Thin rail, held up by wires, wind blowing through copper, the color of her hair, the beauty of Butte, the gold birthed in Helena, now turned grey as dirt covered snow.

She shuffles, not so sure of herself. Steps carefully to protect brittle bones, small steps the child within once took. She sips Ensure to regain some strength.

Narrow fingers search over the bones of the piano, strikes the ivory, caresses the ebony. Light flicks add color to the tones. She doesn't pound her musical friends. They've known each other for years.

Seven decades she's sang their tunes. Played the notes she's known since young. Those who hear her play join in or clap. So much applause in a lifetime of audiences.

On bad days she misses a couple of notes. On good days fingers fly with a life of their own. But bones thin out and beauty fades. In the lingering light she walks towards the light, thin as a rail, wind blowing through hair the color of spent snow.

© Kåre Enga [168.244] November 22, 2011

Note to self, earlier version: Thin rail, held up by wires, wind blowing through copper, the color of her hair, the beauty of Butte, the gold birthed in Helena. Now turned grey as dirty snow.

She walks not so sure of herself. Steps carefully to protect brittle bones. Small steps the child within once took. She sips Ensure to regain some strength.

Narrow fingers search over the bones of the piano, strikes the ivory, caresses the ebony. Light flicks add color to the tones. She doesn't pound her musical friends. They've known each other for years.

Seven decades she's sang their tunes. Played the notes she's known since young. Those who hear her play join in or clap. So much applause in a lifetime of audiences.

On bad days she misses a couple of notes. On good days fingers fly with a life of their own. But bones thin out and beauty fades. In the lingering light she walks, thin as a rail, wind blowing through hair the color of spent snow.
© Copyright 2013 Kåre Enga, P.O. 22, Blogville (enga at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1921623