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The piano girl on 114th loved to play her black and ivory. Ivory keys on black bought by her father. Her father who’s never there. Everyday, she practiced. Repeated. She practiced, the piano girl Kendra from 114th. Long, thick black braids down her back, she lived in a brownstone with her mom, and her mom told her the piano would get her nowhere. Her father was absent. There, but never there. He came and went, brown hat and slacks, khakis, was all she saw of him because he came and went. Drank his coffee black, came and went. Every morning before school, Kendra played her piano. Started off with Beethoven’s Ninth—placed her hands over the keys, listened, and drifted off to a place. Kendra in the morning did this until her mom yelled stop. Time to go. She was the child of the house, the piano girl Kendra from 114th who’s 14.
