Hannah sits at the piano, quietly … no, never. Not quietly. Not Hannah. Let’s start over.
Hannah sits at the piano, plinkering away to herself. (Just because she’s plinkering to herself doesn’t mean it’s quiet.) Many pages of these three hymnals have been witness to her peering eyes, thumbing … well … thumbs, and that claw-like system that keeps the pages to where she can see them.
She announces to the world (and to her mother in particular) the reason for the awkward harmonies her out-of-use hands have contrived at the expense of the well-worn keys. (It seems to be along the lines of her declaration at a young age: “Mom, I will do gymnastics, and you will clap.” Maybe the following words, like her former proclamation, will be prophetic.)
“When I am 75, I will be that old lady leading a small country church in worship. That’s why I’m playing all these hymns now. I’ll have years of practice.”
Her mother is unfazed and unconvinced. “It’ll have to be a very small church…”