They were one of a kind.
***
That spring felt untouchable.
Hannah practiced piano every afternoon, filling the house with clumsy scales that slowly turned into real songs. Rick sat beside her on the bench, tapping the rhythm on her knee.
***
At night, my husband helped her with math homework at the kitchen table. I’d braid her hair while she chewed on her pencil.
« Mom, do you think I’ll be good enough for the recital? » She asked one evening.
Rick sat beside her.
« Baby, you’re already good enough. You just have to trust your hands. »
Hannah smiled at that. She had a way of taking the things I said and tucking them away somewhere deep, like small treasures.
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