In Anita, he may catch a glimpse of mom, reborn.
Mirrored in the open wing of the piano, her face is so young, so alive with the red glow of her hair. Her green eyes shine back from the polished surface. This, I suppose, is why my father is so drawn to Anita. Apparently, he wants her to learn to play the piano, but then—even though she is just a beginner—he expects her to reach a level which no one can sustain. Not even mom.
In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive—but so seldom do you give it to others.
And so, Anita may never stumble, never make any mistakes, because he wants her to be exactly, just exactly like mom, who in her good years—before losing her balance—could produce such a heavenly sound, and vary it over an incredible range, from a murmur to a powerful burst, until her music would swell in you, and bring tears to your eyes.
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