Piano Practice

I asked Mom for help with my piano lesson, and then I argued with her: “But Mrs. Kelly says to do it THIS way, not THAT way!”
At least my piano teacher, Mrs. Kelly, didn’t smell like horse poop like my oldest brother’s music teacher did. Her wrinkled hands trembled, however, when she marked in my lesson books. Each week my hands were also adorned with her ink squiggles.
When she’d finally had enough of me, Mom shouted: “Go to your room!”
As much as I hated facing that old upright, being sent to my room was worse. “I’ll listen now!” I begged. “Please let me just practice my lesson!”