My mother is cleaning out the attic, and dredging up memories that best lie undisturbed until that hoarder’s delight is at long last razed.
“Guess what I found,” she called and crowed to me.
“What.”
“Your accordion!”
Yes. My goddamn accordion,
I’d long dreamed, as a girl, of playing the piano. I’d seen the old black-and-white movies, where a glamorous blonde in an evening gown shimmies to a grand piano, sweeps the audience with a bold, saucy blue set of eyes, and preforms something beautiful by Mozart with her gorgeous long fingers. Instead, when it came to time to torture her children with musical instruments, I was assigned the accordion. Continue reading
