Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. the accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

Is there cowardice with the acknowledgement of fear?

Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

Everything was good. But it was awful, too.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

Better that we leave the paint behind," Hans told her, "than ever forget the music.