I woke up last night with the words "the music stopped" going through my head. Over and over and over again - like a broken record.

Then it hit me. We moved to a smaller house. My Mom's grand piano wouldn't fit in the new place. She was a concert pianist. Before we moved, I used to listen to her for hours playing - Brahms, Beethoven, Mozart, Rachmaninoff and others. I'd sit beside her, I'd put my hands on hers. I'd lie under the piano and take it all in. It was our special time. Something we shared - just the two of us. I was 9. After that, there was no piano, nothing we shared. No connection whatsoever. I don't know who she is, after 49 years. We hardly ever spoke. She didn't 'get' me. I was the only one in her life that she completely ignored. Something went wrong somewhere along the line. She went dead to me. I alone experienced this. My siblings got to experience her in all her splendour. Perhaps it is as my T said - I didn't give her what she needed. She craved something too. I was the only one who couldn't provide. The music stopped...