“Papa was an accordion. But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.”

“Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.”

“Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. the accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.”

“Life was so short that it meant nothing at all unless it were continually reinforced by something that endured; unless the shadows of individual existence came and went against a background that held together.”

“If a book were written all in numbers, it would be true. It would be just. Nothing said in words ever came out quite even.”

“Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.”