My Fantasy
Molly Conway
If I could play like him...
I’d be backstage at the Met
Eight O’clock
my insides jump up and down
my mouth dry
my palms wet
It’s time
I make my entrance
there’s applause
my heart skips
then rushes into the stilted air
I wear a long teal blue gown
it’s satin
sparkles circle my neck
I sit at the Steinway
it’s lid propped open
I adjust the bench
there’s silence
someone coughs
I play
it’s Franz Liszt
my hands and fingers flow
keys smooth and cool to the touch
It starts with a crash
I bang at the low notes
my head nods
my arms straight
I push downward on the keys
then a section of light notes
drawing the listener in
it speeds up a little
a crescendo
more crashing
The ocean tide’s coming in
each wave cupped forward
touching the shore line
then withdrawing
like an uncertain lover
with each approach
gaining ground
The force of the waters
spins the yellow haloed moon
splashing the distant stars
the droplets glide down
glistening rain
Over and over
crashing the rugged seashore
the low notes resonate
on the thick strings
the music goes on and one
circling back again and again
finally, sweet resolution
the sounds grow soft
tinkling like tiny bells
Only to crescendo one last time
building momentum
a final rush of notes
frantic to reach the end
the notes shimmer in the hall
reaching the audience’s ears
then it’s over
gently
softly
barely audible high note
it fades quickly
into the hushed silence
