steinway ovenbird We’ve said for ages that we should swing by and play your piano: a Steinway grand, your husband’s, purchased back in 1972. Your daughter taught lessons on it when she was grown, now my daughter is sitting at the bench, the lid wide open for the first time in half a decade. You have a view of the mountains in this place where you’ve lived alone since your husband passed. You don’t play the piano but you brought it with you, made the movers take off the legs and cram it into the elevator. You thought you might have to hire a crane to haul it up to the tenth floor and over the balcony railing. It was a relief when the elevator sufficed. Now here it is, just slightly out of tune, the damper pedal a little wonky, but we’re all so glad to hear it sing. What past wakes while my daughter touches the keys? What ghost sits beside her? How happy you seem to find the air shimmering with songs that you half remember. 260623 what's it to you? who go blather from