His fingers look like spider legs when they skitter across the keys. You look at his face and see he's wrapped totally in the music. His eyes glaze over as he enters his own universe.

World, meet my brother.

The notes that waft from the floor below are as real as words uttered from somewhere up there. He doesn't know I'm listening. If he does, he doesn't care. I don't think anything matters to him when he plays. Just the notes. The keys, his fingers, and the melody.

A strong left hand plays some steady, low notes; a result of him breaking his right hand only weeks before. It doesn't stop him from playing. He still gets up at 7:30 and plays every morning.

Not only does his playing have soul, a story, a flow, if you could witness his sight-reading, the way he reads a piece like a book, you would never look at sheet music the same again. I can't help sometimes feeling the burn of jealousy for such a talent. The way he plays! It makes my heart ache.

Oh, yeah. My brother is nine years old.

He's in the fourth grade. He might have a career as a soloist. In four months, he'll have his own recital.

Most importantly, I am proud.