Under the Piano

The piano’s shawl hides me. Mom comes in and turns on the record player. Famous Opera Arias. Her favorite. The love seat’s plastic squishes when she sits down. She’s wearing her blue socks. The thick itchy ones. I stick my thumb in my mouth and close my eyes. Mom’s record screeches out La donna è mobile. She thinks I scratched it but I didn’t. Here it comes. La —- mobile. Mom sighs. It’s the needle’s fault. It made the scratch, not me. I want to tell her. But I don’t. Liar, she’d say. I don’t care. I’m invisible. Under the piano.

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