It’s 1:39 AM. I am awake. The fall breeze is blowing my curtain slightly and my room smells of falling leaves. I am tucked under my down comforter in my freshly washed sheets. It’s the perfect fall night, cozy and brisk at the same time. I should be sleeping.

But I am awake.

I sang at a coffee shop tonight. I hadn’t prepared my songs; I hadn’t rehearsed or even organized anything. I thought I would be nervous being unprepared, but a funny, almost strange, thing came over me when I got there; it’s the piano keys. They are mine. They listen to my fingers and they sing what I tell them to. All my years of practice and all my hours of memorization never prepared me for this feeling. It’s not a new feeling–I’ve felt it before–but every time it happens, it nearly overwhelms me all over again.

I remember the moment of pride when I won first place in my piano solo at the midwestern states regional convention. I remember the moment of pride when I won 7th at the international convention. I remember the moment of pride when I got up in front of 800 state representatives and played. I remember the moment of pride stepping into the Governor’s mansion and taking a seat at the grand piano in the drawing room. I remember the moment of pride when I took my final bow after my senior recital.

Yet none of those quite compare to the feeling, not pride necessarily as much as accomplishment, of sitting down and knowing that you share something special with the keys. You work together, you make music together, you write songs together, you share emotions together.

My piano teacher always used to tell me that music is an international language. After navigating airports and planes for over 24 hours and taking a 5 hour, 20 degree train ride to Samarqand, Uzbekistan, I was absolutely exhausted, frozen to the bone, and scared out of my life that I had actually moved half around the world. When I entered the Fath’s house to crash on the corpichas laid out on the floor, tears overwhelmed me when I saw a piano sitting in the corner of the room. It was beautiful. I knew that I would be okay in Uzbekistan because there was a piano. The piano was my safe place. The piano was my outlet for communicating my struggles, my joys, my frustrations, and my tears.

More than that, I learned that my piano teacher had been right; it was an international language. Vika was a young Russian girl who had amazing piano talent. We couldn’t speak very well to each other, but when we sat down together at the piano, we could make up a duet on the spot. It was almost miraculous. It was almost unbelievable. It was beautiful.

I have no claims of being a great concert pianist or even of mastering the keys, but it makes me happy to know that they are there for me when I need them. They are ready for me when I’m ready for them. They are willing to be good when I’m good and bad when I’m bad. They don’t lie to me; they always tell me when I’ve messed up, but they also tell me when I’ve been perfect.

There are 88. And I love every, single one of them.