until the salty tears come

Everytime I hear the strains of a piano on the radio, I think of you, and something aches deep inside me, resonating outwards till the salty tears come.  I can see you sitting there, in the living room, fingers running over the black and white keys like a magician, as you got better over the years.  Yet, even when you got so good that you could yell from the other end of the house: "That's the wrong note, you're playing a G# when it says A#!", you still wanted me, your tone-deaf sister, to tell you that I liked your newest musical invention.

I do like it, very much.