An Untouched Piano

January 3. I find myself sitting at the piano more of late, yet my fingers do not touch the keys. Of all the items I salvaged from the wreckage, it has withstood time's erosion where all else in my life has not. In burying Charlene and Etienne, I felt as if I buried a part of myself – there is nothing to strive for, nothing more the island holds for me. Even the presence of the nearby outpost I find grating – the incessant traffic of merchant and animals back and forth on the roads, carving up and dividing what they can dig and pluck from the isle. There must be more, something else I may focus upon. I fear that I will live here forever, aimless. I do not know why the isle did not awaken my wife, my son as it did so many others. Perhaps they had tired of life here. Tired of me, and saw no future in it. I may never know. But I know this – if I do not steady my racing thoughts, I may try to find the same path as they. R. Grenville