My fingers played the 88 black and white keys. Ebony and ivory, living in perfect harmony. My baby brother was sitting on the floor, next to the grand piano. His dark hair was sticking up in places and in swept the adolescent aroma of apple juice and baby shampoo after him. It was almost as if he was hypnotized by the alluring tones emerging from the elegant instrument. I would steal looks at him and see his eyes gazing up in wonderment as he held his apple juice box so loosely and ignorantly, as if he had forgotten it was still in his hands. These were the times when he was the quietest. My father’s hand showed up spontaneously next to mine and began playing the right hand to my solo. I was taken aback and afterwards I looked up at him and smiled. Even though, deep down, I knew he was not there, I could not help, but allow my imagination to deceive me. These were the times that I felt the safest.
Through the intoxicating music, my soul was touched and my mind roamed freely through many thoughts and memories of when my father was still sitting here, next to me. The music dragged my conscious back to when I was a little girl and used to sit on his lap while he would tell me about his life. I could never stop asking questions, I was fascinated by him. Then I remembered how he was taken, how I would never be able to hug him, or tell him about my problems ever again. He was taken from me and my family; he was never to be cherished again. In his innocence, no one could have presumed when his time would come to an end. How was I to know when it would be time for him to leave and say goodbye? How was I to know that his life would taken like a thief in the night, never knowing when it would come?