The Wurlitzer

I Found You

The Wurlitzer

I remember the day I met you.
 
On your thirteenth birthday, in fact. Bright smiles and a mouth full of braces, you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. You were so eager to learn that you’d stay up until the late hours, keeping me company while uncovering the wonders of each note.
 
“It’s time for bed,” your mother would scold, and we’d reluctantly say goodnight.
 
You came to visit, though, again and again. In return, I’d whisper in your ear, help you learn a new language. You picked up quickly.
 
When your little sister took a pen to my leg, you were irate. She etched a flock of sparrows—nine of them, to be exact. But I liked it. It made me feel loved.
 
Until one day, you left. Your final song is one I will never forget: Clair de Lune.
 
In the aftermath, every once in a while someone would spot me and tell me how beautiful I was, but then wistfulness turned to pity as neglect took over. Abandoned, I faired the elements by myself for twelve winters without your touch. I stretched and I waned, growing old prematurely. My tune turned melancholy.
 
But even twelve years hadn’t erased the memory of your fingerprints on my keys.
 
Your wife found me again at an estate sale. She shipped me home for your thirtieth.
 
You didn’t recognize me at first, but by habit, you reached down and felt for the sparrows.
 
I found you.