Rallentando

by Amy Marques

Nan could no longer play. But her blue-haired granddaughter agreed to take her to the once beautiful brick schoolhouse that housed the first piano Nan had ever touched. It was still there: in a corner, the middle C missing its ivory, and two strings curling out like wiry white hairs.

Nan’s hair was smooth today, but she’d had to pause her brushing three times this morning. One day you’re allegro, presto, keeping pace, daydreaming of how someday you’ll pause to just be. What nobody tells you is that when someday finally comes, being takes all the time you have left.

Amy Marques grew up between languages and places and learned, from an early age, the multiplicity of narratives. She’s been nominated for multiple awards, longlisted twice in Wigleaf 50, and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in journals such as Streetcake Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Fictive Dream, Unlost, Ghost Parachute, BOOTH, Bright Flash Literary Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, and Gone Lawn. She is the editor and visual artist for the Duets anthologies and author and artist of the found poetry and visual art book PARTS. More at amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com.