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Through the dream’s haze my father sat at the piano he didn’t know how to play. Drums were his instrument— something he could hit— but he had not played in years. His body, always tense with pain, was hard to the touch. Once, as we discussed my brother, he squeezed a wineglass so hard it shattered in his hand. The waitress brought a towel for the blood. While he sat at the piano playing no music, Mother picked up the basement. She was always complaining and they blamed me for everything. I finally said: “I’m leaving!” Father glared at me. Mother kept at her busy-ness, pretending not to hear. No one said a word as I ascended the stairs. Part way up, I looked back; half of his face was blocked by the corner wall; one eye stared intently at me. His jaw was clenched. I turned, said nothing, headed up the stairs, went out the back door, and entered the world. --Anthony Signorelli
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