There’s a piano in my office
still sealed like a secret,
boxed in belief,
wrapped in ribboned remembrance
of a Christmas that came with a quiet contract:
Be the man you said you’d be.
But I ain’t touched it.
Not once.
Not a key.
Not a chord.
Not a damn thing.
It perches on the shelf like a judge,
black box, blind justice,
silent but seeing,
a jury of 88 keys
ready to read me my rights
to remain silent…
and wrong.
My wife bought it
with love so loud it didn’t need to shout.
With hope heavy in her hands,
she gave me music
for the man she still believes exists
somewhere beneath
the missed meetings,
the microwaved dinners,
and the muttered apologies
half-buried in bedtime yawns.
And I smiled that safe smile,
that “thanks, babe” smile,
that “someday soon” smile,
that same damn smile
that’s been fading from her face
as the years dripped dry
like forgotten faucets.
My kids.
God, my kids.
Five of ‘em.
Five symphonies I never scored.
Five fires I left burning alone
in the cold corners of their own becoming.
Their baby giggles gave way
to headphones and hallway hellos.
Their hands used to reach,
now they retreat.
And I can’t blame ‘em.
I gave them fragments.
Flashes.
Phone calls from the car.
A father filtered through work
and Wi-Fi and worn-out excuses.
Now their eyes hold echoes,
half-light halos
of the man they hoped I was
and the stranger who showed up instead.
I used to have friends
like family,
now I got followers.
Likes in lieu of love.
Comments in place of connection.
We say “let’s catch up” like it’s currency,
but we never cash it in.
We toast old times
while quietly mourning
the funeral of friendship
we’re too afraid to admit is already dead.
I had dreams, man.
Big ones.
Burning ones.
Books and beats and backroom speeches
that could break the back of boredom.
But now those dreams are ghosts
that rattle in my ribcage,
restless,
angry,
aching.
I can’t even hear their voices anymore.
Only their footprints
pacing, pacing, pacing.
And still…
that box.
That box.
That fucking box.
It waits.
Patient as prayer.
Still as sin.
A mute monument to all my almosts,
all my should’ve-shown-ups,
all my maybe-laters
stacked like unpaid debts
on the doorstep of now.
It is not just wood and wire.
It is willpower I never wielded.
It is a time machine
set to reverse
a rewind I won’t press
but can’t stop watching.
One day, I’ll open it.
Not today.
But one day.
When my spine stops sagging
under the weight of wasted chances.
When my hands remember
how to hold more than guilt.
When my voice
finds the vibrato of truth again.
Until then,
the box stays closed,
and I stay cracked.
And the music?
The music mourns me
softly,
slowly,
like a lullaby
for the man I still might become.