The Dusty Piano

Dear Delyara, I used to play every day. I used to think music was my soul. Now, the piano in the corner is just a shelf for mail and dust. I tried to play a simple scale today and my fingers felt like lead. I cried. I’m mourning the person I used to be—the person who had a passion that wasn't tied to a paycheck. I feel like I’ve sold my soul for a 401k.