Each morning, before the heat of the day imposed an irresistible torpidity, she sat on the piano bench and remembered what it was like when she could play without arthritic pain restricting her movements. If only the rains would come, give life to the crops, relief from the oppressive temperatures, perhaps she could rest her fingers upon the keys and be the woman of her youth, a beacon, moth-like in physicality, and he would step behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and they would gently rock back and forth to the music.