THE PIANO UNDER THE DUST SHEET

Dear Delyara, At twenty-two, I played Rachmaninoff in a concert hall. At forty-six, I answer customer complaints for an insurance company. The piano in my apartment has not been opened in three years. I keep a white sheet over it because dust inside the keys feels more disrespectful than dust on top. My coworkers do not know I was once a musician. They know I bring yogurt for lunch and take the 6:10 train and never volunteer for team-building events. Sometimes a caller is placed on hold and the system plays classical music. Last week it played the second concerto. My own hands were resting on a plastic keyboard, typing policy numbers. I disconnected the call. My supervisor asked whether the customer had been abusive. I said yes because it was easier than saying I had heard the sound of the person I abandoned. People tell me it is never too late. They do not understand that some dreams do not die. They remain alive enough to witness what you became instead.