Troglobite

A troglobite is a creature
   who has adapted to life in a cave. . .
   to the dark, food-deficient, stable,
   relatively safe environment
                       of a cave.


 I spent my entire childhood as a troglobite. . .
   a transparent, eyeless millipede. . .
   my thousand hands available
   to live out my mother's dream---
   to become the concert pianist
                       she never was.


The cave we shared, my mother and I,
   was dark and damp, and its walls thick,
                         for keeping out the world.
The air outside the cave was not fit to breathe
Sunlight would burn my tender skin
Other children would distract me
                           from my purpose.


Handprints were etched into the stone walls . . .
   Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt,
             Schubert, Bach---
Their hands. . . and mine
Theirs, to inspire me to remain in the cave
Mine, to remind me that I had no choice.


Born inside the cave,
   and weaned on my mother's dreams,
I was my mother's reflection
She was the only truth I knew.


At age five, with my mother ever-vigilant at my side,
   I practiced five hours a day. . .
                       my fingers curved
                       like tiny hammers
                       striking the keys. . .
                         eighty-eight
                         black and white
                             teeth. . .
                       my fingers clenched
                           and rigid
                       like cats' claws. . .
                       like tiny metal
                           hooks. . .
                       And the metronome
                         cutting time
                           into
                         quarter notes. . .
                         my fingers
                     like little soldiers
                         marching. . .
                         tic-do-re
                         tic-mi-fa
                         tic-sol-la
                         tic-si-do
                         tic. . .
                       and back again. . .
                         up and down,
                       scale after scale. . .
                       And my heart
                         beating. . .
                         tic-do-re
                         tic-mi-fa
                         tic-sol-la
                         tic-si-do
                         tic. . .
                         and back again. . .
                         in quarter note
                             time
                             with
                               the
                           metronome. . .

                   And my five year old legs
                                             dangling
                                                     over the edge
                                                                 of the piano bench. . .
                                                         never touching the floor.


                   I learned how to fly
                                         out the window
                                                       at the top of my head
                                                                         back then.

I left her. . .
   that transparent, eyeless millipede,
             and her thousand hands. . .
                         playing "Fur Elise",
                                     for my mother.

I sealed off the entrance of the cave.