• Dead, they said. She was dead. Deceased. Decaying
    They told me it was a drunk driver. He had been at a party and had a bit too much fun. He was going to court and would probably have jail time. Well, I hope he understands what he did.
    If I could speak to him, I would say, “My family was in that car you hit. My dad now has whiplash, and my mother needed sixteen stitches. But, you affected my sister most of all.”

    Departed.
    My words caught in my throat as I tried to tell my friends why I had to leave school early. They didn't understand. My piano instructor understood; she knew how I had written a song dedicated to my sister and how I was going to perform it at the next concert.
    I'd tell him, “She was eight years old. Now she won't know what it's like to be in her first dance competition, get first place, have a first crush or a first love.”
    Passed-on.
    Before I said goodbye to her that day, she made me promise that I'd never stopped playing piano, because it was her “favourite thing to listen to.” I haven't touched the piano since. My parents said that I should play the song I wrote at the funeral. I told them to stop asking.
    I'd say to him, “You killed my sister. I hope you are proud.”
    All those times I whined about how I wanted to be an only child, I didn't mean it.
    Dead.
    I work at the local ice cream shoppe. It's pretty dead eight months of the year, but as soon as May comes around, and the warm weather follows, ice cream becomes a staple. Some townsfolk who know me ask how I'm doing, and I put on a smile and say, “I'm fine. Would you like chocolate or rainbow sprinkles?”

    He came into the shoppe yesterday, that boy from school. You know, that guy with dark hair and deep eyes, who wears worn-out jeans and shirts with jokes on them that no one understands. The one who writes his own songs and plays guitar outside. Yeah, him; the one every girl pretends not to notice, but they secretly fall in love. Maybe it's just me.
    He ordered a twisty cone and stood there rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited for his cone. I stumbled around making it for him. When I returned, I saw him glance at my hands and ask, “Do you play piano?”
    I nodded as I handed the ice cream to him, but I couldn't meet his gaze. “I used to,” I clarified.
    He took a lick of ice cream and shoved his free hand into his pocket, rummaging for money. When he found what he was looking for he pulled his hand out and reached out to hand me the money. “I just noticed you have great piano fingers,” he paused, his eyes becoming serious as he looked from his ice cream to me, “Why don't you play anymore?” he asked.
    I finally looked up at him as I gave him his change. “Personal reasons.”
    He shoved the change into his pocket and asked, “Do you want to talk about it? No one gives up music without having a good reason.”
    I hesitated, thinking of the consequences of opening up to someone I had never spoken to before. I nodded again and said, “I get off in ten minutes.”

    He was outside when I finished work. As I approached, he said to me, “You look surprised.”
    I shook my head, “I'm not surprised.” I could feel my cheeks warming. I hadn't expected him to be waiting for me.
    He invited me to sit with him on a bench by the street. “Tell me, ice cream girl, why did you give up on piano?”
    “Lindsey,” I told him, “and my sister was killed.”
    He was silent for a few moments. I could see him calculating his words carefully. “Well, Lindsey, I'm assuming you were very close to her.”
    “She was my muse.”
    I remembered how I used to practice after she got home from dance class. She would wear her tutu home, put on her tiny pink slippers, and dance around the living room. I would play waltzes and pieces with strong rhythm for her.
    She loved to dance.
    “I see,” he said, bringing me back to reality.
    I gazed at him, waiting for him to understand and leave me to it. He tapped his chin with his fingers, his eyes were calculating again.
    “I see the problem,” he said.
    “The problem is obvious,” I said, feeling my forehead tense in annoyance. Maybe this was a bad idea.
    “The problem is that you need to stop playing for others, and play for yourself.”
    A laugh escaped my lips, “What is that supposed to mean?” It was clear that he was just mocking me now.
    “Lindsey,” he said, putting his hand on my forearm, “if you never play for yourself, you won't ever enjoy your gift.”
    I was about to fight back, but he cut me off, “I know your sister loved your music, but did you ever stop to ask yourself if you were happy playing it, even if she wasn't there?”
    I bit my lip, my eyes wandering down the concrete at our feet. I memorized each crack that tore across it, like lightening in the ground striking us where we sat. Piano was the only thing I liked about myself. I was proud. But, was I really happy?
    “Come on,” he said taking my hand, “I want you to show me.”
    I blinked, forcing myself to agree. We walked back to my place, and I lead him to the piano that sat in a lonely corner of the house. I stood across the room from it, staring half in fear and half embarrassed.
    I felt a small nudge in my ribs and I looked over at him. He smiled at me and said, “You have more talent than you've been letting on, I can tell.” I gave him a look and he explained himself, “The way you look at the piano, like it's an extension of yourself. You feel bad for abandoning it.”
    I nodded, walking forward. I ran my fingers along the ivory and ebony, as if my touch was an apology. I sat on the bench and took a deep breath in. I didn't take my fingers off the keys as I began to play a song.
    The song I wrote for my sister.
    And, somewhere in that waltz of music, I could hear my sister's angelic laughter.