Of Many Things

A s a retiree, my mother finally has the time to indulge her contemplative streak. While I was growing up, she would rise at 5 a.m. to sit alone with her coffee, enjoy the quiet and browse the newspaper. After we bought a piano, she would play one unbroken improvised song, a progression of chords, for half an hour or more. To me it sounded like prayer, like Mary pondering all those things in her heart. I’d lie in bed and wonder at the songs my mom kept inside some deep interior well, there in the Arizona desert.

This article is available only to subscribers.
If you are a subscriber, click here to log in and be returned to this article. To subscribe to America's print edition, click here. To subscribe to America's web edition, click here.