"Don't call me a musician!"

James stood staring out the white window, watching the tall oak branches sway up and down, back and forth. He stood at the window for 30 minutes, refusing to sit with me.

"James? I remember when we first met. You sat with your back to me like you are now. You were...I can't explain it. I remember grabbing my phone and hoping Shazam would tell me what song you were playing. Helen Long's Willow became my favorite song that day."

James turned his head to look over his right shoulder.

"I'm not a musician," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. "I've always been haunted by memories, the emotions songs provoke. So, I played."

James smiled, for the first time in a while. It was an odd smile. Only the right side of his lips turned up. Looking at him, I asked myself what he could be thinking. He must have sensed my question because he turned his head back around and again stared off at the oak tree. The moment became tense. Awkward. I decided not to push the issue.

"I don't know who loved it more, Jess or Sam?" James finally said, his back still turned. "Sam did. Sam's the musician. From when he was a baby, he would bang on the keys. What other seven year old do you know who could play Sonata 14. Natural ability. He got that from his mom, from Jess."

More silence filled the room as James continued to stare out the window. I struggled with whether I should say something or not. Again, like a mind reader, James began to talk once more.

"Can I tell you something?" he chuckled. "I hate to be so personal, but" He turned around, placed his hands in his pockets, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

"But?" I began.

"One of the first times we made love" James paused mid-sentence. This time, his left cheek joined his right. A broad smile now crossed James' face.

"The night we conceived Sam. I remember Doll playing. I don't know how, or what we were doing, but"

He began to nod his head. He spoke quickly, and his voice became elevated.

"The rhythmic sounds that pulled you under. Sucking air, heat, life from your body. The chords. I remember feeling like if I died at that moment, life was somehow complete."

James walked over and began to circle the piano, inspecting its curves with his fingers.

"For a moment, I felt that feeling. The feeling every movie, book, or love story tells you, you should feel as your soul imprints on another. As you become one with another being. That song!" James clenched his fist as he visibly shivered.

"It became our little secret. Whenever we heard it, our hands met. Our eyes met. Our souls were reminded of the love we shared."

James stopped and stood still. I felt pleased. I thought it was good for him to live in such pleasant memories. I tried to get him to tell me more.

"I've always noticed the energy. The excitement on your face when you played that song." My words seemed to pull James away from the scene that was playing in his head. I regretted my words then. I cursed myself as he began to slam the top of the piano open and closed violently. He stood slamming the hood for what seemed like hours. Finally, he slumped to the floor, sobbing.

"James, I'm sorry" I whispered.

"It's stupid" he whispered back.

"I'm so sorry" I said again.

He looked up at me, not bothering to wipe the clear liquid that flowed from his eyes and nose. The look he gave me felt dark. I felt like it was the look of disdain. I wanted to withdraw, hide, but there was nowhere to go. I knew I said something stupid. Stupid mistake number seven, I told myself.

"Why are you sorry? Are you God?"

"Um." I paused, telling myself it was best not to make stupid mistake number eight.

"Tell me? Are you? Because if you are, I want to let you know that you are a sick fuck!" James began to sob.

There were no howls, no shrieks, no sound. His body bounced back and forth as he sniffed, wiped his nose, and banged the floor.

"Sorry?" He asked. But, the question was an accusation. "Why you sorry?"

I concentrated on the spit that flew from James' mouth. I sat as still as possible, as his voice fluctuated from loud to soft tones.

"Are you the person that set my house on fire in the middle of the night? Huh? Did you do this? Huh? He was seven. He was seven. I. I. I couldn't even look. I didn't say goodbye. The burns. My God. The burns. My God."

James wiped his nose with his forearm, but the clear liquid continued to pour out. Slowly, his sobs turned to laughter.

"God. Oh, great God? Jess prayed every night. God? Her mother says their God wanted my family. Apparently, they had to be charred to death as a right of passage to a better place! God! Your sorry!"

Tears streamed from my eyes, but I sat quietly. There was nothing to say. I realized at that moment the selfishness of my thoughts and actions. I was so caught up in the idea that I could make the situation better somehow. I forced James to restart his piano lessons as a way to move beyond his grief. He said he wasn't ready, but I demanded lessons from the best "musician in town." What he needed was to grieve. More importantly, he needed to know it was okay to grieve. I walked up to James, and without saying a word, I hugged him before leaving. As I turned the doorknob to go, I heard him whisper, "wait."

I paused for a moment before closing the door back. There was nothing else left to say. So, I opened my music app. I searched for Doll, hit play, and added the repeat feature. I sat down on the floor next to James. We didn't say another word for hours. James fell asleep shortly after resting his head on my shoulders.