In the distance, I see the grand piano. It doesn’t look like it washed up; it looks like it has been there all along, part of the sand. I walk these beaches every morning, though, so I know that it’s always there. As I reach out to play a chord, I think l know why it’s there, too.

The sound is deafening. Even above the waves, I can hear the song I’m playing. A song from my childhood, when I was young and carefree, when mother and father would take me to lessons and we’d eat under the old tree in the backyard. Now, it’s just me. I don’t even play anymore.

But as I do, here on the beach, I begin to cry. Remembering. And when I open my eyes again, I briefly can see the monitor near my bed flashing a smooth, flat line. Nurses rush in at the sound of the beeping. I return to the piano, to happiness,