Two days later, I found a note on the kitchen table. Beside it stood a glass pitcher filled with her “famous” lavender lemonade.
Dearest Law,
You know I cannot say goodbye without crying, and I hope you can forgive me.
Love, Mom
P.S. Play the piano.
I folded the note, got a glass, and poured lemonade. Tears threatened to make me a sobbing fool, so I took a breath and left the kitchen.
The piano sat ignored in the living room, a room left alone since my father’s death had consumed our lives. I approached the instrument and looked at its dusty surface.
My mother had drawn Play Me in her feminine hand with plenty of flourishes and ending with a giant XO.
I considered the keys and conjured the sounds of songs played, fingers tingling, heart racing.
A knock on the kitchen door, followe
