Covered in dust and papers, a candle, a coffee mug, tambourine and a photo. Messy and busy and hectic; I grab a rag and hold my breath, remove the Tamborine. The cloth comes away, and you gleam. Sometimes, I roll back the cover and press the keys – slow and careful – Chopin; Sometimes, I roll back the cover and pound out Rachmaninov – my fingers speak for my heart when my mind can’t catch up.

The dog sleeps on the floor and my children ask questions; about homework, about life, about silence, about words, but never about the notes – I wonder if they know…or if they consider this just another weird thing mom does.

As I close the cover over the keys, and push the squeaky wooden bench back under, I turn and catch the smile on my husband’s face, and drop my shoulders, breathing deep once again; throwing the rag in the hamper as I walk away.

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