AN: Well, I'd like to thank Sangeetha for FORCING (^~) me to write, which gave me the opportunity to write this thing in an IM window! ^^;;; Aren't I odd?

When I was a little girl, I remember but one thing. I remember the piano in our parlor, sitting there collecting dust for god knows how long. And one day, when I was just a little girl, my father walked up to the baby grand, rotted wood falling apart, the finish fading away-- and began playing the graying, ivory keys.

The song that he played was so beautiful; it flowed through my ears, the tune just longing to find a listener who would find its beauty inside.

But one note, one single, solitary note, threw the song out of its rhythm. My father, he couldn't play the C-sharp. It wasn't surprising that the old piano was out of tune, it was so old and aged. Logically we knew it might have a few kinks here and there, but something inside both of us thought that maybe... just maybe, it would work wonders this first time in a decade. Our hopes were wrong with the shattering note of the C-sharp.

The piano wasn't ever played again.

I wept once in a while; wondering why my father never bothered to get it tuned. Why? I would ask him. Why can't you try again? Are you too scared? He never did answer me.

When my father died, I was heartbroken and as I listened to the mournful organ playing in the background of his death, I wondered why he never bothered to fix our old piano. I sat there in my parlor wondering, sitting on the piano's aged bench that always cracked when I sat on it, why.

And finally, I decided to put my why's to rest.

I lifted up my hands that had felt so many things in their long life and began to play the old, weathered piano. Nothing felt quite as warm as the aging keys, almost as if my father's touch was still fresh. Without conscious knowledge, I began playing the same song my father once played some 30 years before. And, to my shock, the C-sharp was the most glorious note of the piece.

Dad always was great at fixing things.