The divorce was finalized over lunch hour. Twenty-five minutes, a judge's signature, and it was done.
I'd tell my younger self now: don't rush it. Sit with the papers a while. Feel the weight.
That jar of buttons we started sorting together stayed half-finished on the shelf. After you left, no one touched it. Some things don't get sorted.
That Christmas I worked twelve pianos in eight days. I was grateful for the silence of empty sanctuaries, but I didn't know how to fill my own.
The real work came later, learning to tune the silence at home. The space between two people is like a piano string—you can let it go slack, or you can find the right pitch.
I remarried a woman who works nights. We leave notes on the kitchen counter. That's its own kind of tuning.
So if I could go back to that luncheonette where I signed, I'd say: this isn't the end. It's just the first note of a different song.