As Fatima rummaged through the attic in her home, she stumbled upon an old piano which was given to her as a gift by her father when she was just 12 years old. She remembered it as a child and played it when they had moved to New Orleans. Its keys, once yellowed with age, now shone like ivory. She cleaned it. She sat, fingers poised, and began to play. The melody unfolded, a new arrangement of a forgotten tune, echoing through the dusty space. Tears rolled out of her eyes and she could feel the presence of her father even in this new arrangement.
The picture is my own.