My mother was an upright piano, spine erect, lid tightly closed, unplayable except by the maestro. My father was not the maestro. My father was the piano tuner; technically expert, he never made her sing. It was someone else's husband who turned her into a baby Grand.

       How did I know? She told me. During the last weeks, when she was bent, lid slightly open, ivories yellowed.

       “Every Tuesday,” she said. “Midday. A knock at the door.”

    The first time, I froze. A grown woman myself, I listened to my mother talk and was back playing with dolls and wasps' nests. I cut my visit short. My mother didn't notice. She'd already fallen asleep.

The second time, I asked questions.

    “Mother,” I said. “He....came round. On Tuesdays. How many?”

    “We are fallen stars, he said to me,” whispered my mother, the formerly-upright piano. “You and me, he said. And then he would take my hand.” She closed her eyes, smiled.