Nothing could stop carcinoma cells from multiplying as they sought to dominate her healthy cells. She lay in her hospice bed, lungs gurgling, oxygen elusive. Then she was quiet.
He played his fiddle five-hundred miles away. The tune once belonged to his friend, hit by a car, dead. I listened to the song on the radio, fingered my imaginary strings, stroked with my make-believe bow.
Then the segue, the bridge to move from melancholy to exuberance. I rode along, sitting on the E-string, swaying to music neither my sister nor his friend would ever hear again.
His music mended me.