Years later, earlier today, I said, I’m a poet as though saying, Yes, really, I’m a person. Once upon a time, after school, I played Mozart. I played. I didn’t know I was a whole country’s favorite way to say somewhere not real. Or maybe I did know, but not enough to stop moving my hands across the keys. Would I love the piano now? Could I play my favorites? Would I see my hands’ movement, my hands as sunlight?
