text: This story alludes to the loss of a child. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. It’s a slow song, a heartbroken song for a heartbroken man. God seems to know what’s happening this morning as a light rain falls dutifully on the windows. It keeps a steady rhythm like a metronome. But the time my father played to a metronome is long gone. His long, angry fingers crash into the keys as thunder roars in the background. I stand, lingering in the doorway. His body sways and rocks, a man lost in the song. Lost in his own devastating grief, unaware of the child who needs him for arguably the first time in her whole life. Instead, he crashes into the keys. Louder and louder as the crescendo dictates. I see his right foot, shielded in a black loafer, gently pressing on the golden pedal. The notes linger in the air and I want to rush to him like we did in the summertime. When Mama plaited my brown hair in a long, mermaid’s tail down my back. He lifted me onto his lap and let me touch the most valuable item in our whole home. Mama, stood where I stand now, watching with a joy on her face that at the time seemed indescribable. Papa’s calloused fingertips dancing along my infantile ones as he taught me scales. His laughter filled the parlor room with love, joy. I could swim in that laughter. Now, I depart from my father’s grief, watching as the laughter was broken down into tears. I step into her sanctuary, her bathroom. Mama always said, “It takes more effort to frown than to smile, my love.” She’d pinch my dumpling cheeks and mumble something about wrinkles before turning to face the mirror. Her face was like a painting, stuck behind the glass. Her blue eyes sparkling as she applied rouge, a little mascara, and her signature red lip. My little fingers reached up to grab at the perfumes, delicately housed in crystal castles. She’d smile down at me, her little dumpling. Her long, elegant hands, nails perfectly polished in pastel pink for Easter, vivid red, white, and blue come July, burnt orange in the fall, and a deep green by Christmas, would grasp the castles and release a cloud of love into the air. “Choose your perfume wisely, my little dumpling,” she’d say. Sometimes, I would get to mock her. I’d crane my neck up high and dab some lilac essence onto my neck. The bottles stand haunted, untouched. My little fingers still reach for them. I pull and let out little sounds of frustration as my hand flaps on the counter. I successfully feel the hard tube of one and grab on tightly, pulling as I go. I don’t notice as it edges off the counter and I gasp as it falls. I have destroyed a crystal palace. Tears rush forward as I hear my father’s heavy footsteps crash up the stairs. He’s set me on my bed in a new, black dress. My little feet dangle off my bed. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. My first dress lies crumpled in the corner of my room and I tilt myself back onto my pink comforter. I can smell Mama as I do this. So I sit up and throw myself back again, inhaling her as I do. I can see her face, bright as she clutches one of my dolls. She’s waiting for me. She says, “Let’s take a walk,” so we do. Mama reaches out her fingers and I grasp at them with mine. We walk down the wooden steps. She holds me up so I can skip one every so often. We walk out the big, red door, out into the front garden. Mama smiles at the rose bushes, coming into bloom in the spring and summer. She shows me how to kneel down and smell each of them. Her pearl earring brushes my cheek. It’s cold and it sends me into giggles. Mama smiles back at me. We walk to the Big Tree, just a bit away from our garden. I tell her all about Tilly, my doll, and how she is a princess and so am I. “Right you are, my little dumpling, a princess for the red of your days,” her lips press into my forehead. They leave a red scar of love. I awake to the soft song of a violin. Violet must be here. I brush my curls back from my face and smooth my dress. Downstairs, a shaft of bright, afternoon sun cuts across the wooden floors. I am an international spy as I plop down and dangle my stocking covered feet off of the balcony. My hands grip the wooden banisters out of habit as I poke my face down and peer. I can see Papa, playing the piano. His broad shoulders sit straighter now. Violet is indeed there with her violin. Mama used to watch them play. She would sit back on her warm, leather chair, with me in her lap. When I was too small to silence myself, she’d shush me softly in my ear. I can feel her warm breath as it breathes comfort and safety into me. Her arms would wrap around my waist as the violin cried or laughed or stomped in anger. However, her belly grew too big to hold me in the chair. She told me she had swallowed a watermelon seed and that made Papa laugh, even as the song crescendoed into joy. Violet laughed, too as she took a break to bounce her bow off of Papa’s shoulders. “Our home shall always be filled with music, my dumpling,” promised Mama. But now, Violet does not stand tall with her violin. In fact, she sits in Mama’s chair. That does not sit right in my tummy. I stand and rush down the stairs. My stockings make the journey slick. Papa doesn’t look up from his work. Violet plays deep, long notes as Papa crashes along with her. I rush to Mama’s chair and tug at Violet’s dress. The music stops. I see tears in Violet’s green eyes. Papa doesn’t turn to me. His right pinky reaches out and lets loose a high pitched note. Violet begins playing from Mama’s chair. I tug on her black lace at the bottom of her dress. She stands. I take my seat in Mama’s chair. It feels warm. I decide to make Mama proud and keep myself quiet. I button my lips. But music is boring. And Papa’s shoulders seem to slump down low, low, low like the lowest branches of the Christmas tree which brush the tops of colorful bows and boxes. I unseat myself, my stocking covered toes scratching at the leather. I wander into the kitchen. Juliet is there. She stands with her broad back against the white counters. Wisps of red hair escape her bun. I march up to her and she lifts me onto the counter, an act of rebellion against my father. “Cookie?” I ask. She doesn’t correct my speech. I am handed a chocolate chip cookie and crumbs soon fill my dress. I offer a bite to Juliet who refuses. My brow furrows in confusion; Juliet always enjoys a bite of cookie with me. She isn’t wearing her blue dress with white apron today. Just a long, black one. Like Violet. Like me, I realize. The door opens. I hear some adult speech and reach for another cookie. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. Juliet slams a glass of cold milk beside me before returning to the counter. I swallow it in three gulps. She lifts me off of the counter. I return to Mama’s chair. Papa does not look up, his fingers slam back into the keys of the piano. I am bored. So I stand and try to clamber into Papa’s lap. He doesn’t permit me. His music does not stop wailing. I huff and stomp my foot. Juliet comes in and mumbles an apology. We sit in Mama’s chair together. Juliet does not feel like Mama. She’s not as soft and she doesn’t smell like perfume or roses. Her hands are rough and unpolished. Juliet does not wear any earrings. I turn so I can whisper in her ear, “When is Mama coming home with the baby?” Juliet pushes my head to her breast. I can smell a new scent on her. It’s clean. Frustration echoes in my heart as I demand the question once more, “When? When is Mama coming home?”