I started piano lessons young. My tiny hands struggled to traverse the octaves or climb the mountains of the black keys.
Mother would make me practice hours every day—even sitting next to me in a chair. Through the years I mastered all the classics.
Our piano was near the living room picture window and as I got older, I watched my friends playing baseball.
My beloved mitt never left the top of the piano.
Today, I play baseball in a neighborhood league. But I cannot execute a note of music. An empty piano bench sits next to a dusty keyboard.