Martha knew who had done it when she woke up and saw eggs and trash all over her front door. Her mean neighbor had finally lost it over the fact that she played the piano every day. That is, until her daughter found out.
She started a chain of events that brought everyone together and taught one man a lesson he will never forget. My name is Martha. I’ve lived alone in this little house on Maple Street for three years now.
I’m 67 years old. While he was sick, my husband George passed away. It might have been his heart, but I think he was just tired.
Sick of fighting and getting hurt. No matter what, he sneaked out of the house early one morning, and it’s been too quiet ever since. What is the hardest part?
It’s the quiet. For some reason, there are no more footsteps in the hallway, coffee making before I wake up, or humming coming from the garage while he works on his tools. It’s only his old piano that makes me think of the time we spent together.
He bought it when we were just married and living in a small apartment above a laundry. There wasn’t much money, but George put it away for months to surprise me with. He rolled this big, beautiful thing through the door, and I cried.
It barely fit in our small living room. Since then, I’ve played it. After breakfast every day, I sit by the window with a coffee and play “Moon River,” the song that George loved.
It’s not too loud, and I don’t play it so that my neighbors can hear it. I play it for myself to remember that George is still here with me. I need music like I need air to breathe.
I wouldn’t be the person I am without it. There have always been nice people around my neighborhood. Some people have even told me they like listening to it through their open windows on sunny days.
Things began to change a few weeks ago, though, when a new neighbor moved in next door. His name is Kevin. He seemed upset about something from the first day.
It could have been the move or just life in general. As soon as I realized that, I did my best to be nice and open. I made him cookies and left a note with them on his door.
I thought the gift would make him happy, but I guess it didn’t. He didn’t say thanks. Instead, I noticed that he was staring at my house.
He told people whose sprinklers were too loud. It made him sigh deeply and grumble under his breath when the mail truck sat there in front of his driveway for too long. When I played the piano, even if it was just a little, he would look out the window at my house and stare.
The look that says, “How dare you be here where I can hear you?”
At first, I tried not to allow it to bother me. You don’t need to fight with your neighbors, right? I told myself that he might just be having a bad day.
I thought that once things got better in his life, the anger might go away. Then, one morning, I had a different thought about him. Like always, I got up early.
Some of the sun was coming through the blinds, and birds were singing outside. Like always, I made a coffee, added some cream, and opened the front door to let some fresh air in. The moment I stepped outside, I knew today was going to be a terrible day.
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