The cinnamon smell of memory wafts down the keys of grandmother’s piano with the familiar veneer of nostalgia, tracing smooth oaken curves glinting with polish and perfection.
Where is the nick in time; the persistent worm? Where is the longing of the woman whose sheet music props open the mirror of my present? Where is her “today,” her awareness, the notes on her page, the details that were, that are, that fade?