Amy Louise

Uncle Al

She was dead. I went to the soundless player piano, picked up her glasses and put them on. I figuratively saw the world through her eyes and ignored the slight blur from the prescription stronger than my own. She had placed them on top of the enigmatic black Moleskine she authored from time to time. I left the house tucking the little black book in my generous coat pocket. I left the door unlocked and walked away, eyes to the street glasses inching down my nose.