“I always forget how small your hands are,” she remarks. Her voice has the poetic grace I always hoped mine would.
I concur. “Pretty small.”
The sequence has stubborn spots of silence where notes fail to sound. The mind is cognisant, but fingers are not. They waver, falling too heavily on one key only to slight the next. Ivory stammerings fail to free the melody caged within hammers and strings. Ten years serve me little after a few weeks of forgetting.
“Your hand is too small to reach all the notes. Don’t try to span the whole octave. Focus on one note at a time, or you won’t be able to make all of them sound.”
Small hands try to contain it all. Small hands strike some chords and miss others. Small hands try to summon forth an elusive song. Small hands tell a brief and aching story. Small hands pry themselves open to confess love and faults. Small hands, laced with small veins, blister with remnants of truth.
When small hands are empty, it is small shoulders that bear the weight.
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.