I wear it and I am no longer old. The curve in my spine recedes and my neck is long and proud. In that dress I am back at the Royal Festival Hall; fingers nimble and slender, skimming the keys of my grand piano. The sinews of my forearms answer my call, flexing their wings.

It was the peak of it all: Rachmaninov and Liszt, in a dress of black chiffon and lace. From my living room I see the audience settle and still, throats pulsing, souls reflected in their smiles. How I revealed myself those nights through my grand piano, open like a beating heart. How it rejoiced and whimpered like a great beast exultant then cowed.

The skirts of the dress rustle like kindling when I walk. It is a young woman's dress with layers and flounces; deep neckline, tight bodice, puffed sleeves. There was a time during the ripeness of middle age when I could not wear it, fearful of warping it beyond recognition. Nor did it seem right as I was then, gracefully matured. As I am now, a hollow silhouette, we have come together again.

The dress and I are co-conspirators. I wear it and I am invincible: hair sculpted, eyebrows pencilled, cheeks ablush. Buoyed up, I throw myself into the flurries of Liszt's Piano Sonata in B minor. Deep, menacing pauses are interspersed with moments of softness and wondering. Triumph, foreboding and reflection all jostle in the arena of life and death. I give it my all, yet my arms are heavy and unwieldy. Each bony knuckle of my sternum strains to keep my body afloat. Wayward fingers: have discipline! I fall into the jaws of the beast.

Later, a cardiganed woman with cropped hair stands over me. It is Sheila, my neighbour. 'I was worried Louise...I let myself in'. Her arms are folded across her chest, contained. I despise her at this moment, standing over a tangled mess of chiffon and lace.

The district nurse visits, then the doctor. Assessments are made, and assumptions. There are hushed tones and meaningful glances as they survey the wreckage of my home. They depart leaving me arranged carefully on the sofa, out of reach of my grand piano.

***

I play something simple: Bach's Minuet in G from his notebook for Anna Magdalena. The intonation is clumsy, a child's. Stockinged feet dangle from the piano stool. My wrists jar each time I strike the keys. Some time soon they will come to take me from my home. When I greet them, I will tell them I can command audiences with the breath of my fingers. In my dress of black chiffon and lace, I will play to my last audience and beauty will bid her beast farewell.

Sophie Khadr's work has appeared in flashquake and espressostories. She wonders often about the direction her life has taken so far and is all too aware that time waits for no one.