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not just a consolation prize for those who couldn’t make it as real performers.
One evening, about a week into her hospice stay, she reached for my hand. Her grip was weaker than I remembered, the bones feeling fragile beneath papery skin, but her eyes were fierce.
“Annabelle, I need you to know something.”
“Anything, Grandma.”
“The Steinway.” She paused,continue reading …
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