The Neighbor's Piano Practice

For three years, I've listened to my upstairs neighbor's daughter practice the piano every afternoon at four. When she started, she was seven and could barely play "Twinkle, Twinkle." I could hear every mistake.

I've heard her struggle with scales. I've heard her bang the keys in frustration and then start again. I've heard her get better, slowly, week after week, the way you watch a tree grow.

This spring, I heard her play a Chopin nocturne all the way through without a single mistake. I was making dinner. I put down my knife and just stood there, listening, with tears in my eyes. I've never even met her properly.

The next day I left a note on their door: "From your downstairs neighbor: the Chopin was beautiful. Thank you for three years of free concerts." Her mother told me she taped it above the piano.