The smooth keys feel cold at my fingertips. They are smooth and even and these shapes comfort me. On a piano, it is either black or white, so decisive, so even. As my hands sweep and skim across the keys the music glides and cascades about me. Rising and falling, this flow shapes me. The keys are so unlike life but the flow is so like life. With the hard, evenness below my fingers and the soft, changing flow around me, I think and remember.

I close my eyes and just stand. I can feel the warm breeze brushing against my smiling face. The long, feathery field grass tickles my legs and the smell of summer winds its way across the blue sky above me. I run and tumble across the field to the large, ancient oak. I jump onto the wooden seat, worn smooth, and hold the twisted ropes tight. As I soar through the air the dust swirls and catches the gold light like shooting stars.

As I drift back to the room, the music is still swooping and the keys have warmed under my fingers and distant summer sun. The crash of the music draws me back.

I can feel the damp mess of grass beneath my shoes and the wetness of the coast seeping into me. The steely grey sea crashes into the rocks below me and sends angry foam towards the black sky. The wind whips about my face and the rain lashes at my body. The sharp spray stings me and I taste the pang of bitter salt on my lips. I’m battered like the rocks as I sink towards the hard wet earth and feel the rain on my face.

A soft, salty drop hits my finger and holds its shape, catching the light for a second before my finger moves again to yet another key.