“Will you play something else?” He requested softly, his voice remorseful. “Will you play something for me....please?”

I wiped my tears off of the piano keys with the bottom of my sweatshirt. He waited patiently beside me, letting me regain my composure. I was still hurt and frustrated, and I didn’t understand him at all. But I had never been able to hold onto anger very long ...and I forgave him immediately, giving in with a soggy sigh.

“You know I love ‘Ode to Joy’ but I don’t really want to play that right now…” My voice was a little gravely from crying, and I looked up at him. “Have you ever heard Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 23 in A Major?”

“Ummm, I really wouldn’t know if I had.” He smiled ruefully as he looked down at me, shaking his head and wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

“It’s my favorite song…today.” I smiled a little. “I have different favorites on different days. But today is a Mozart day.”

His hands fell to his lap as I began playing. I plucked out the lilting melody, trilling through the notes, fingers flying though the rolling chords, coaxing every last bit of aching sweetness from the wistful concerto. How I loved this music! How it healed me and filled me and soothed me.

The last musical phrases were so soft, so faint, that Samuel leaned in to hear the very last high, clear notes as my fingers grew still on the keys. I looked up at him then. He was staring down at my hands resting on the now silent keys.

“Play more,” Samuel urged softly. “Play the one you played at Christmas…the second one.”

I acquiesced immediately, my heart swelling at his response, his sincere enjoyment.

“Does it have a name?” He said reverently, when I finished.

“Ave Maria.” I smiled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It was written by Franz Schubert. He was only 31-years-old when he died. He died completely broke, not knowing that his music would be treasured by people forever.”

“And you know this because….?” Samuel raised his eyes to mine in question.

“My piano teacher, Mrs. Grimaldi, tells me all about the composers when I play their music. She says to be a great composer, I have to love the great composers, and if I don’t know them, how can I love them?”

“Which one do you love the most?”

I giggled a little. “It’s kind of like my favorite song. It changes all the time, depending on what kind of mood I’m in. Mrs. Grimaldi says I am a very mercurial musician.”

“I think I’m going to have to go look that word up.”

“The dictionary says it means active, sprightly, and full of vigor.” I laughed. “I had to look it up as soon as she said it, but I think Mrs. Grimaldi meant always changing, unpredictable.”

“So who is your favorite composer today?”

“Lately, I have been enamored with Frederick Chopin.”

“Does enamored mean in love with?”

I giggled again. “More like captivated by.”

“Why are you captivated by him?”

“He was handsome,” I answered promptly, and felt like a silly idiot when Samuel raised his eyebrows and smirked. “But mostly it was because he wrote mainly for the piano...more than any other composer in history. I am a pianist so....I like that. He was also very young when he died - only 39 years old. He died of Tuberculosis. He also had a torrid love affair with a famous writer. He was filled with guilt because he never married her, and he was certain he was going to go to hell because of it. He ended their relationship before he died, trying to repent of his sinful behavior, but it’s so romantic. He was such a tragic figure.”

“So play something by Chopin,” Samuel demanded.

I had the first portion of Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor memorized, and I loved the dramatic rhythm of the low - high, low - high pattern throughout the beginning. It was a moody piece, and it appealed to my romantic nature when suddenly it became sweet and melodic, full of nostalgia and tenderness. I had not memorized the incredible difficulty of the final movement, tying it all together in a triumphant and impressive finish, so I improvised a little to end it before I got there.

“I can see why you are enamored,” Samuel teased. He was relaxed and his mouth was curved in pleasure. “Now play me something you’ve written.”

I froze in discomfort. “I am not a composer, Samuel,” I said stiffly.

“You mean you haven’t made up any songs? Mozart was…how old did you say? Four or five...when he started making up…what are they called?”

“Minuets,” I supplied.

“You haven’t even tried to compose a little?” He prodded.

“A little,” I admitted, embarrassed.

“So...let me hear something.”

I remained unmoving, my hands in my lap.

“Josie....all I know about music, I’ve learned from you. You could play something by Beethoven, say it was yours, and I wouldn’t know better. I will think whatever you play is wonderful. You know that, right?” He urged me gently.

I had been working on something. A few months back, a melody had shivered its way into my subconscious, and I hadn’t been able to place it. It had lurked, pestering me, until finally I had hummed it for Sonja, fingering it on the piano, creating chords out of the single notes and embellishing the melody line. She had listened silently and then asked me to play it again and again. Each time I added more, layering and building until she stopped me, touching my shoulder softly. When I looked up at her from the piano, there was awe in her face, almost a spiritual glow.