What can't be heard is not ignored

I play piano for my sister, although she can not hear, she knows the notes I play coordinate perfectly with the rhythm of my heart.
I play for her to bring out the happy giggle she doesn’t know she has.
I feel her presence by me as I play, for it lights up the room and she listens as if she could hear the keys I press down, that create the tune oh so dear to the heart, crafted and shaped by my soul.
My hands, like the instrument of my heart.
You can learn to do so much with your hands, how to mold poetry, how to tickle pianos, and dribble a basketball, and grip the handles of a bicycle.
Every time I show her a new piece, she hugs me in symbol to tell me how beautiful the new melody is, like a bird’s theme song.  
She sits close to me, not to close, but perfectly distanced so I can feel her warmth, the light her body carries.
Sitting near me with one hand on top of the piano feeling the vibrations through the lid of the piano, as the beat hums down her fingers, her arm and into her mind, where she decides this is a masterpiece. And only her opinion matters.
I play for her with my eyes closed, not opening them so I don’t let in the darkness that precedes just outside my eyelids. The emptiness that isn’t black, for that being a color I do not know.
I play yet I cannot see the notes, the rectangle ivory bars that lay just in front of me.
I play though I can not see because that is no excuse. Being blind does not mean being absent to surroundings and dreams.
I play, but I can not see. She listens though she can not hear. But what can’t be heard is not ignored.