I wake to feel cold air on my breasts, and I hear the faint sound of a grown man sobbing.

I say nothing, but close my eyes again—I do not flinch when I feel hands grasp blindly at my small breasts, I do not cry when one hand leaves my chest to travel down between my legs. My body does nothing—no emotions or sensations are stirred within me, there is no twitching of my organs, no shifting of my insides. I open my eyes and look out the window, watch the moon—I’m jealous of the moon, jealous of its freedom, jealous of its beauty and its almost painfully carefree smile. I’m jealous of the way the stars gather around it and jealous of the way it lights even the darkest of nights. I wish I could fly, I wish I could be an astronaut so I could leave this dying land and go to a place where there really is an eternity, where things really do last a thousand years—where stars die quietly and things don’t seem to move, things don’t break if one more star dies.

People won’t cry if one more star dies, right?

When it is morning I hear a piano.

My mother played piano, and so does my father—every Sunday afternoon a young girl named Melinda comes in and takes lessons from him, and every Sunday I hear her quiet little breathing as he puts his hand over hers to put it on the right key, the gasps as he leans down over her shoulder and peers at the music, correcting her softly and telling her what she needs to do. I know Melinda isn’t stupid—she realizes that this man is touching her inappropriately but she whispers not a word to me or her mother. Why? Because I think she realizes it too—that this man is sad and defeated and all he is doing is trying to find an escape, even if it’s wrong. Even if it makes me scared to go to sleep, makes me want to lock my door, makes me want to run away, makes me want to run in and save that little girl’s mind from all the trauma she is experiencing. But I lay in bed and I do not move, I listen to their voices, I listen to the piano, and I look out the window again and see that the moon was retreated from my sight and instead it is the sun. It hurts my eyes but I continue to gaze at it thoughtfully.

To me, there is nothing more powerful than the silence, the brief hiatus between notes--the feeling that you are God, you are in power, these notes are your creation and you're the one responsible for their living and their essence and their breathing. To me, there is no feeling as beautiful as this.

I am eleven years old, and I am watching my father cry.

She could speak every language, she was a child prodigy on the piano, she could sing songs from any musical or opera you listed, she could play the cello, she planted flowers outside to help my father's depression, she could make love in any location, she was beautiful, she could not cook at all, she loved me beyond all measure. I know so much about this strange woman, and yet...I feel as if she not real. There are pictures, there are stories, there is the scent of her still fresh on her clothes. But she is a stranger to me.

I watch my father sob for a woman I did not even know, and I am almost ashamed that I feel no pity or grief. I am a child and I do not mourn the loss of my mother.

But I cannot miss a stranger. I cannot weep over the loss of a mother whose arms never held me.

Just coffee, he says. I don't even bother to write it down anymore, so I just nod and go to pour a cup. While I am doing so, I feel his eyes on my back, heavy and dark and I hold back the violent shudder that is begging for release.

The coffee warms the cup around my fingers. I bring him his drink, set it down in front of him, and begin to leave--he stops me by grabbing one of my wrists and pulling me back until my face is so close to his that my heart begins to race and I fear that my vision may go black. You never smile, he observes. Why? I gaze at the pretty face (so unbearingly close) and slowly shake my head, telling him that I do not know. His stare is intense and unsettling.

Please let me go, I whisper, careful not to breathe too much.

Why? he replies.

I...I have to get back to work, I tell him, and his grip loosens enough that I am able to pull my hand away from him. I turn opposite from him without a single word more and leave him to be swallowed by the movement of his world.

I am standing still.

I am stillness itself. I do not move much--I do not waste my energy with unnecessary motions, I do not shift around when I try to sleep.

He is motion. The very essence of motion, the meaning of it. The pure, simple definition of upward, constant movement. His fingers consistently twitching, clenching, fidgeting, his foot bouncing to some silent rhythm that I cannot follow, his lips mouthing words I cannot read.

I am stuck in my own life, while he glides through his, taunting me with his freedom.

I wake up from a dream about birds to remember that he smells of black coffee and chocolate.

He’s beautiful, I tell the old man.

Well, why don’t you talk to him? he asks of me, huddling himself deeper into the jacket I have brought for him.

He...scares me, I confess quietly. I feel so judged when he looks at me. He’s so intelligent--he brings in these books by philosophers and doctors and artists and wears these glasses that make his eyes terrifying and he’s so tall...

You wanna turn into that person in the bars who groans and cries about the person they let get away? He sniffs a bit, wipes his nose, and gives me a long look. All you gotta do is learn about these fancy philosophers and painters and sit yourself down and make his scary eyes sparkle with joy that he’s found a girl who’s as smart as you and as pretty as you.

I’m not like that, I say.

Yes, you are, he retorts. Kids these days don’t know anything about love.

My father did not want me to play the piano. In fact, he did not want me to play a musical instrument at all, which is very confusing to me since he teaches girls my age piano and still plays the piano himself. I do not know if it was an act of rebellion or not when I took up playing the violin, but I do not regret it. I have never felt a feeling so exquisite as playing the violin, as letting my fingers glide like silk against those smooth strings, as fantastic as ripping my bow across and making the most harsh and fearsome sound. While I am silent, my violin weeps and screams and rages about the quietness around me.

I have a voice. It is my violin.

For once I am there before he is.

I watch him walk in as I absentmindedly clean a glass. He walks with purpose; each step is careful and sure, precise and clean. His eyes are set in front of him--the sunlight from outside casts a glare on his glasses and makes him look frightening, and I look away quickly. Why, I wonder, am I so scared of him? Why is everyone so afraid of him? No one sits with him, even though he is handsome and very polite--people stare and whisper and point.

Is it his beauty, perhaps, that repels them so? Does beauty frighten and attract all at once?