Around noon, she goes into a different room
to take her cello lesson. I can’t see her teacher
but I can hear him: he has a voice that sounds
like a soft summer. Lana’s teacher is Russian,
as so many cello teachers are.
The serendipitous notes from her cello blend
in with the sound of the cars driving down
the avenue at that time of the day.
I use moments like these to organize my
brother’s book keeping (he has an ice making
business with home delivery).
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