Gemotions

The old piano in the corner of the room stood silent. Her son, James, announced he was embracing Sikhism. She had learned to play it as a child. She had later taught her son. Now, James would be wearing a turban and carrying a kirpan.

She sat down on the piano bench, running her fingers over the keys. The keys were dusty. She imagined her son, sitting beside her, his small hands reaching for the ivory. She closed her eyes, remembering his attempts to play simple melodies, the joy radiating from his young face.

A single tear traced a path down her cheek, landing on the polished wood. She opened her eyes. The music room, once filled with shared sounds, now echoed with a new kind of silence.