In the Old and the New

My mother says I always want to throw away everything. That if it were up to me, I would just get rid of something if I didn’t see a practical use for it, even if it still works.

In this house, something new, there are a lot of some things old. The old things look different here. Like they were staged.

My old keyboard. I didn’t know it still worked. I stopped playing it when I returned home from college one year and the corner of one of the speakers had ripped. We weren’t sure if it was from a mouse that could have chewed the fabric, or from someone trying to stuff it under the bed. The damage was done; my old keyboard felt like it didn’t work anymore. Seeing it now, over 10 years later, properly on its stand, the pedals still wrapped in plastic, some scratches on the body, but it can still play. It’s loud and strong. A beautiful instrument.

Our old family dining room table. It’s been in the family longer than I have. The mahogany still shines, the gloss never dulling. Its extension fills the room comfortably, still, and it doesn’t squeak when you press down on it to lift yourself up.

Our old couches and dining table and chairs from our first apartment. Seeing it was a little spooky, silly; like they were tiny furniture from a dollhouse.

I also see a lot of new: couches, floors, beds, and wicker chairs.

Old doesn’t mean bad, it doesn’t mean broken. “It still works” is faith fulfilled. It’s already certain, assured.

My father plans to refurbish the table. They already have new cushions for its seats. Next is to sand and paint the chairs before screwing on the gray bottoms.

I have a spark of desire to relearn piano. I can play here; I can put my attention to it.

I want to fill this house with the old and new.

I am a collection of old and new.