Preeetttty.
This would look so beautiful across the top of my piano. The piano itself is a little spinet our family got second hand, its last place of residence being a jazz dive called “The Jungle Club” 40 years ago. My parents were friends with the owner, who lived across the street from us. They were a great couple of beatniks.
I was showing my husband how to take apart a piano about ten years ago, and opened up the bottom. There was a dessicated joint held between the strings, all eaten except for the paper. I guess it had been left there by someone who wanted a secret stash, but then forgot about it. Darned short-term memory loss. I assume it was from the club and not from my dad – at least, that’s what I choose to believe. There are cigarette burns on the top. There’s an oddly mildewed patch on the lower left. I don’t care, it’s the piano I had when I as a kid, and maybe the F sharp sticks a little, but it got me through practicing for competitions in high school, and I love it.
One day, maybe I’ll have time to make something to grace the top.