The piano room

I'm six. My mother walks into the piano room. "Keep playing, darling, your music is lovely!" she says. I keep playing. My fingers are tiny and some chords seem almost impossible but I stretch my little hands and my entire body and my soul. My mother sits quietly behind me and listens. I watch her reflection in the polished piano as I play. 

* * *

I'm almost seven. My mother walks into the piano room, says nothing. My fingers are still tiny but my mind is huge as I compose and play and play and play. The huge brown piano has stopped being scary long ago. I try to see my mother's reflection in its surface but I can't. Can she really exist in this particular reality?

* * *

I'm seven and a half. My piano room is now a walk-in closet. My piano is gone. Pity - my fingers are now long enough to play any chord, any song, anything. My mother walks into the living room and says, "Finish your homework, darling, and I'll bake you some cookies." "Can I have my piano back?", I ask. "But darling, we have never had a piano".

But I know we did.