She bends to the keyboard, playing a composition of her own called “The Sweetest Love.” He accompanies, barely contained in the role. The cascade of her curls. The speed of his fingers. The way she casts an eye at him and he at her and the music turns, pauses, continues. Perfect time, Chris says, and no percussion. I gave up Pics and Paragraphs awhile back, moving on with the idea that these little pieces should become something else – poems, a book, a springboard. Maybe. The world kept changing. Donald Trump. Leaving my job. A legislative season spent wincing at the news. There is so much to think about, so much that needs writing. But then tonight, the room more empty than full, the music so alive. (What happened there would never happen the same way again.) I missed this small undertaking, this attempt to give word and image to the unexpected and the daily.