I played a little this afternoon, looking up to see my own face reflected in the glass. I never expected these years. Looking up farther, I saw the book up on the top shelf in the wall—the one place where I have her pictures, her words written in her own hand. Maybe I put them close together on purpose, someplace beyond my thinking. I couldn't bring myself to pull it down and look; I can only do that every few years anymore.
This is the best way, I tell myself. But the music never quite makes the sense it's supposed to, and no one else ever hears.