Our Own Version of Schroeder

Remember Lucy? Leaning, lovelorn, on the edge of a tiny, squat, toy grand piano as Schroeder pounded out a Chopin Nocturne or two? Ok, so it's not a toy grand piano, and she's missing the angst and the focus, and she's of course not male, but in our own way, I'm Lucy to her Schroeder: me hovering about, entreating her to play and loving whatever happens, because she's her, because she's mine, or rather, because, in an even more truthful way, though I gave birth to her, she is really not mine, can't be possessed, is her own little self, enclosed and unreachable, the way we all are to each other. And, like Lucy, that makes me sad, and full of respect, and each time I see her I fall a little deeper in motherlove.