u n t i t l e d

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as a kid
i would listen to the sound
of my mom
playing the piano
to a song i couldn't quite place,
yet it gave me such joy

after her performance
i'd throw fake flowers
sitting in a vase full of water
(god knows that woman
couldn't keep a plant alive
to save her life)
and yell "bravo!"

now,
thirty years later,
i sit at the dusty piano
that hasn't been touched
since that day
and i play her favourite song—
our favourite song

the dark room
suddenly glows
with a child-like feeling of glee,
and i can almost hear
the sound of my mother laughing
at my silly ways

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