We Never Stole The Piano

 

They don’t tell you that stealing a piano is actually kind of easy.

When you’re sixteen, sad, and think music is the only thing that can save you… that music is the only thing heavier than grief, heavier than the silence sitting in your chest. 

Brian's brother was in the military; they traded his body for a flag. 

A flag of a country rude enough not to look us in the eye and tell us sorry. 

A flag of a country that knows not sorrow for someone you’ve lost during deployment. 

We didn’t say his brother’s name. We didn’t dare.

Grief is a language you learn in silence. 

But once, Brian broke it.

He said:

“He used to play piano with his eyes closed. Like he trusted the notes more than people.” 

And so that night, we wheeled our bikes  through the back of the church,Brian carrying his grief like a coffin strapped on his back. 

We didn’t steal the piano. 

Not really.

We dragged it outside, rolled it under the security lights and suddenly the parking lot became a cathedral.

The night became an audience we didn’t ask for but desperately needed.

Brian's  fingers stumbled into Ed Sheeran's visiting hours. . 

I hummed a goodbye song too quiet for heaven to overhear. 

And together, we stitched our wounds into melody.

Two boys, turning trauma into tempo. 

Two boys, turning bruises into bars.

Two boys, making a symphony out of everything this world tried to bury in us. 

No one came.

No cops.

No priest.

Just us.

Just the music.

Just the night, finally listening. 

And when Brian finished, he didn’t smile.

Didn’t clap.

He lowered his head onto the keys.

The sound groaned, howled, and collapsed into silence. 

I thought he was crying.

But he wasn’t.

He whispered

“This is the only time my hands feel useful.” 

Tell me, what do you do with a sentence like that? 

When your best friend tells you his hands only feel useful when they’re touching something that can’t hold him back?

© amimoh