The fading ebony and egg-creme ivory feel stiff like her arthritic fingers. The hammers and dull chords with notes sunk southward--vapid and unanswered, such are the words that never came. The boy with the almond eyes pleads with the old woman to play his favorite tune--an airy, innocent jingle. She sits in her chair, rocking and rhythmically rubbing her knees, back and forth creaking the floorboards. "The key players are dead."

My throat has become swollen and scratched- a sure sign that I've said the wrong things.