About the work

He started polishing the piano at five that morning, before the amber could even begin to warm the glass. It’s always been the glass. Not the keys, not the wood, not even the bench, but the glass that seems to hold everything. He’s seen it reflect clouds, stray birds, the faces of people who have come and gone. Today, it will hold the slow fade of the light, then the cheap stage lights from inside, then the rising moon. He thinks he’s ready for all of it. He thinks. But he never expects the squeak of that cart, always the same cart, to feel so much like a challenge.