This diary, I now realize, is a precious, unintended gift she left me. If I go back far enough through its entries I can put her together again. I can resurrect the woman lost to me. Her ghost may then become more real to me than the closeness of her body.
I turn the page, and hear her voice rising from its rustle even as she tosses fitfully in her sleep, down there in our bedroom.
I avoid telling the cop that as I recall, the shadow is climbing up, ever so stealthily, into the apartment building, suggesting a hint of the stairs. And I avoid telling him that when you lift your eyes to the window, up above on the first floor, you can see that the embroidered flowers have faded in the sun, especially near the bottom edge of the curtain, where the fabric is straightening out of its folds.
This is where we live. This is safety. It is the place I must find.
And once I am there, I will sit at my white piano and give a little nod to the bust of Beethoven, which is always smiling to me. Then I will lift my hands over the keys, in wait for that perfect moment, when music comes.
Lenny, reading Natasha's diary in The Music of Us
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Volume III: The Music of Us