Piano-fingers never got to play, but there was music in her throat. She lay on her bed at night and
sang to herself and let her fingers dance across the air to make music where there was silence.
She wondered if this was all worth it.
Piano-Fingers returned home with blood on her hands and mercy in her heart. She sank to the
floor and wept. She reached out her trembling hand and watched it shake. She wondered if this
was all worth it.
Piano-Fingers carried a warm, yet living body under a thick winter coat. She bowed her head to
the oncoming snow and ran her hands over the soft, fearful being, not to die tonight. She
wondered if this was all worth it.
Piano-Fingers gripped the sheets of the hospital bed. She pushed, pushed, pushed out a broken
heart. She did not get to hold it, but the walls were spattered with blood and life and love and
love and love. She wondered if this was all worth it.
Piano-Fingers sits down at a mostly-broken keyboard and plunks out the notes of a song she still
remembers. It has been a long time. Her hands are wrinkled, and her face is tired, but the song
plays on. She wonders if this was all worth it.
The music, the mercy, everything she saved, and the love, the love, the love, it reaches up to hold
her face and whispers: “It was. It was. It was.
