Start with the piano. In the corner of the living room. Nearly forgotten. Your mother, lightly dusting the piano, in her paint splattered pants and stained tshirt. Your mother grimacing as she attempts to preserve the peeling lacquer against the wear of decades. Your father slumped in his chair, reading last week’s newspaper. Sighing, If only one of you three could play me something right now. You lock eyes. You look down at your hands.

It’s December, and a blizzard storms outside. The wind sweeps up the fragile snowflakes into a frenzied tornado, glazing every surface it reaches. Burying what was there just a moment ago. Smoothing out the imperfections.
The piano. A classic instrument. Oozing class, or at least, a false sense of it. Like Aunt Diane. How she bought that brand new set of expensive china, only to let it collect dust in that broken Ikea cabinet. How a 65” TV blocked the view of hole in the wall. Why doesn’t she just use her money for practical things, you ask. She was never good with her money, your mother complains. You remember your cousin. With his greasy hair, and thin frame, and his baggy clothes from Goodwill, how he looks like a skeleton that suddenly lost 300 pounds. How he always seems to be tired, playing on his laptop and computer and three nintendos and iphone and wii from eleven to two am, and sleeping from two to eleven am. How he prefers to stick his nose into the newest game, trying to forget the real world.

What day is it, your mother asks. It’s Saturday, you reply. Which means your oldest sister will be visiting soon. Your mother cannot wait for their weekly chats after you sister is done with her mandatory grocery haul at Costco. Your other sister is probably working at her new clinic. Your baby nephew is not born yet. Your father now slouched to his left side, snoozing into an old pillow, newspaper balanced on his knee.

Don’t forget those binders. How the three of you each had exactly two, spilling with unfiled sheets of music and study cards. Your sisters decorated theirs in sharpie doodles and Lisa Frank stickers. Your binders are carefully crafted with leftover scrapbooking supplies.  Your mother rearranges them every now and then. You sometimes catch your father looking through them, studying the notes, decoding the markings. It’s dark outside now, the blizzard has stopped. You can only see the twinkle of the snow near the rim of the window and the faint glow of your neighbor’s christmas lights. You remember each day.

The day when your oldest sister moved to college. How she took one last look at that piano and drove off. The day when your other sister played her last piece. How she continued taking lessons, and suddenly got bored. That day when you got a phone call that your piano teacher fled the country without uttering a goodbye. Your father looking at you with a grim face. You walk over to the piano and gently close the cover over the glistening keys.