Reading Time: 1 Minutes
The boy carries his corgi down the stoop of our shared brownstone. His thick arms and delicate fingers were made for tasks like these. He sees me battling bags of groceries. Settles two in one hand. Three in the other. I decide he isn’t a serial killer and lead him through to my kitchen counter. Past the upright silenced by arthritic fingers. We strike a bargain of perpetual weekly shopping. He wheels the piano from 1A to 1B. The corgi herding in a delirium of delight. It’s three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Outside the leaves are falling in anticipation. Listen. The music of the universe is about to start. ◆