I will never forget the pink piano.
Yes, you heard that right.
A. Pink. Piano. Baby pink, to be exact.
I was five. Things like that make an impression when you are five.
It was an old upright piano, and it wasn’t pink when we first got it.
That came later.
I’ve told you before how much Mom loved pink. I don’t know for sure what led to the decision to paint it pink, or what whispered in Mom’s ear to convince her it was a good idea.
I seem to remember the wood had been damaged, but I can’t say for certain. Whatever the reason, it remained the only pink piano she ever owned.
I’ve seen people paint them white. But that was the only one that was pink.
It sat in our living room for a long time, next to the television.
You could see it from almost anywhere on the bottom floor of the farmhouse, except the kitchen. Unless you stood in the doorway.
I remember people coming to the house. They almost always commented on the piano.
“It’s pink,” they said.
“Yes,” Mom answered.
She never explained why she painted it pink. She let them draw their own conclusions. Maybe even she didn’t know why.
Eventually, someone gave her an old pump organ.
That’s when she decided she didn’t want a pink piano anymore, and its fate was sealed.
Dad pushed it out the front door onto the porch.
After moving it outdoors, he hooked a chain around it and dragged it with the tractor down to the slough at the bottom of our pasture.
I wasn’t allowed to go down there, so I never saw it again.
