Play for Me

When she got mad, she played piano. When she was happy, she played piano. When she was excited, she played piano. When she was sad, she played piano.

It was when she was saddest that the music coming from the piano was the most beautiful. When she was sad, the notes were long, low, and exquisite- a sound most people in the house didn't know a piano could make. When she was so sad she cried, the music was slow and sometimes there were long pauses between notes, so long the music almost faded before it picked up again. When she was so sad she became angry, the music was amazing. It was fast-paced. Her fingers reached all over the keys, tickling all of them, from the shiny black to the dull, slightly worn ivory. It was when she was sad that the music was enough to make others cry, too.

She loved the piano. It was her life. It was all she had ever wanted to do. Mandy was known to the people of the house as the most musically talented person they had ever met. She never left the piano for anything less than absolute necessity, and nobody minded that. The music filling the house from morning till night was peaceful, even if at times a bit distracting or emotionally rendering. The piano became the house's love through Mandy.

All that changed the night of the car crash. Mandy hadn't been driving- she didn't like to- but she was in the passenger seat, her never-still fingers picking out keys on a piano only she could see. The driver didn't get hurt- the driver hardly ever does in these cases- but Mandy did. It wasn't as bad as it could have been- she survived- but the minute the other car smashed into the passenger door, Mandy knew one thing with absolute certainty: She would never play the piano again.

It was that realization and not the pain that made Mandy cry.