I’m one hundred years old,
but she doesn’t mind.
Me with my squeaking bench
and fading wood
and chipping keys
she loves me.
Passed down from generations
so that now,
I stand in the house of a person
who despite my age,
loves  to play me.

She sits down on my squeaking bench,
observes all of my faded wood,
and presses her fingers to my chipping keys.
She plays a melody.

The tears in her eyes threatened to overflow
like a waterfall of lost souls
but now,
she plays me,
and her eyes light up with joy
as the melody lifts her up once more,
and I wipe the tears from her eyes.

And as her smile begins to grow wide,
I wonder how I,
a piano with faded wood
and chipping keys
and a squeaking bench
can make someone so horribly sad,
feel alive again.