I LEARNED my last piano sonata five summers ago in a room of wicker chairs and coiled rugs. Afternoons, while I squinted at notes, my wet bathing suit darkened the reds and browns of the towel around my waist. My skin was full of the smell of sun. Colored shadows came in off the porch. The wind that earlier billowed sails out on the lake had barely breath enough for the curtain. Delayed fragments of voices drifted up from past the boathouse. Someone turned on the hose to wash off bare feet.
Through the verdant summer I played the Mozart fantasia. Now I remember that time mostly in my fingers. In August they played without my watching anymore.
I meant to call a friend the other day but my fingers dialed the number of a house where I once lived. The echo of the rings entertained the silence of its rooms. I paused to listen.
That I could, through an inadvertent touch, instantly thrill the house with sound again - made the ring of the 'phone music to my ears.