STill life
Julia Hou I liked being a piano. I had legs, a solid mass, an imposing figure; I could stand without help. I was high-end, a Yamaha, because Porter deserved polish. I liked being a piano despite Porter’s stubby fingers, the way he pressed keys carelessly, jangling notes that made me wince. Sometimes, when he’d finished learning a sonata, he’d do a perfect play-through, and I would feel proud for having a part in its beauty. So my reluctance, my desire to remain a piano a little longer, seemed to be why I couldn’t turn back into a girl. Porter had already finished practicing his piece for the day, had already plopped down on the couch and switched on his Game Boy. Our mother had already collected the practice books and returned them to the shelves. She tapped my soundboard. “Time for homework,” she said. My strings particularly taut that day, the wood of the hammers swollen. A moment passed, then two. My grandmother watched me from the mantel, her carved eyes intent. My father cursed from somewhere across the house; he’d burned his finger on the stove. My mother tapped my soundboard again, the clack of it louder. “Sophia.” Like ears popping, I returned to my body. My hands keeping, for a second, black varnish before returning to their usual suntanned brown. “Sorry,” I said, half-expecting D-flat to come out instead.