Nathan had been my best friend since we were eight years old.
His parents had signed him up for piano lessons with my mother, who taught music in our living room.
Twice a week, he’d arrive at our house carrying a backpack nearly as big as he was. While Evelyn, my mom, taught him, I’d sit on the couch, counting the minutes until we could go outside and play.
“You’re supposed to be practicing, not watching the clock!” Mom would tease him.
“Music is a gift, Nathan.”
Nathan would grin.
“I’m practicing patience.”
Mom adored him. She always said he had a natural talent for music, even if he was more interested in climbing trees with me.
“Music is a gift, Nathan. And the best thing you can do with a gift is pass it on.”
He wasn’t alone.
She repeated that so often that we used to roll our eyes together.
