I was fourteen when cancer took my mom—a slow, merciless kind of loss that strips a person away piece by piece, leaving behind only fragments: the sound of their laughter, the scent of their sweater, and, for me, the music.
Every Sunday, no matter how weak she felt, she played the piano. Her fingers, pale and shaky by the end, still found the keys, filling the room with jazz, classical pieces, and old standards from her youth. None of it mattered except for that sound—that fleeting moment. I’d sit cross-legged on the rug, cereal bowl in hand, completely absorbed. It was the last tangible gift she left me.
The piano itself was a dark mahogany upright Steinway, its ivory keys and carved legs evoking the grandeur of old movie sets. To me, it wasn’t merely an instrument—it was her voice, carrying on after she no longer could speak.