The Pianist

She is an old woman. Her dyed red hair is thin enough to see her scalp. Her hands are wrinkled and covered with purplish veins. They are fragile looking hands that belie their abilities. 

Every day she comes for a swim, and when she is finished, she drapes her cardigan sweater over her bony shoulders and sits at the bench. There is a moment of silence when you can only hear the cover slip over the keys, and then the music comes forth in bright, bold peals. If you sit long enough and close your eyes, you could be in any great concert house. Piece after piece, she plays with her whole aged body moving along to the rhythms, some slow, some quick, her head dipping and swaying. The hands you thought couldn't fasten a button zip over the black and white so quickly they are a blur. 

She stops after a while, and you wipe a tear from your cheek. No amount of thanks could ever be adequate, so you simply bow your head as she looks back and you.