Jun 10, 2021
2 min read
Last Slice of Life
How soon we become memories
I remember her long-fingered hands on the piano, swans undulating their necks, one with the music, entrancing. Lifting them now, limp, rigid, hunched in a fearful clench, I shuddered. This is death. At least, if she died near her grand piano that would have seemed more plausible. Passion would not have been out of place there—a crime of passion.
