It wasn’t the first time that Simon was about to perform onstage, but still he was very tense, as he was all the time. From backstage, he could see the shining black piano reflecting on the polished wood floor, and the first three rows of spectators in the twilight—the rest of them were wrapped in the darkness.

“It is time,” his assistant reminded him, giving him a glass of water.

He checked again that the cufflinks of his shirt were facing parallel. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he could feel it in his throat. His breath was so short that he felt as if he didn’t have the time to inhale before exhaling again. For a short moment, one that seemed to be as long as a life, his panic prevailed. 

Suddenly, he heard a voice in his mind. “Breathe. Let the music flow in your breath.” Slowly, his breathing returned to regularity, his nerves eased, and finally he stepped into the light of the stage.

A warm applause broke out from the audience in the stalls. He bowed toward the crowd and sat in front of the piano. Pause. A quick glance to his cufflinks, the ones that his mother gave to him for his first concert—that concert that she could never see. 

One last deep breath, and the piano started to play.

From that moment on, it was just harmony. It seemed as though Simon’s fingers were moving independently. While he was playing that symphony in adagio, he was back with her, playing the piano in the sunny living room of their house. How many memories. Simon was an excellent student. He graduated from Juilliard School with honors, but the best lessons he learned, he had learned from her. She, who renounced her career when he was born. Because that bond was too strong to be broken. Because the absence of one parent was enough for a young kid. She dedicated every single day of her life to her child until, on a cold autumn morning, the illness took her away. In that moment, Simon was back in that spectral hospital room. He could feel the cold of the cloudy autumn again. The piano music started to accelerate, turning into an allegro vivace. Simon was just twelve when she was gone. His father wasn’t at home very often, and when he was, it was never enough. Arthur the Great, so he was called by the public. He was the most acclaimed orchestra conductor of those times. New York. London. Paris. Moscow. He conducted in the most important theaters of the world. For him, Simon’s every success was just the duty of a diligent student, but nothing more. Not a single encouraging word. No “God job, Son!” Just, “You can do better.”

The music in the concert hall was becoming faster and more violent. Simon’s fingers were moving obsessively on the keys of the piano. The piano hummers seemed to move as a stormy sea until, all of a sudden, that apparent emotional tempest was appeased. He was back in the living room. With his mother, side-by-side, playing together. 

When the music stopped, thunderous applause burst from the audience. Simon, awakened from his daydream, stood up, got close to the edge of the stage, and with appreciation, he bowed. 

In those few minutes Simon felt proud, secure. He felt at home.

Francesca Ligas, age thirty-five, was born and raised in Rome, Italy, though her family roots are in the Italian regions of Sardinia and Campania, with a touch of Liguria. After four years in New York City, she likes to think her roots are grounding here, too. Her writing appeared in LR20. She hopes that her studies with Corinne Butta at University Settlement Society, where Lucian Leung is site director, will make her a better person and writer.