Gemotions

From her perch in the back of the auditorium, Maya watched the young pianist. He had the notes, the tempo, but he missed the heart of it. It was *her* song, a song she wrote for her mother just before she passed. A lump formed in her throat, thick and uncomfortable. She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing down the strands. The auditorium lights seemed to blur, and she found herself transported back to the small apartment, the smell of lavender soap, her mother’s smile. The music washed over her like a tidal wave.