It’s unseasonably warm out. I slip off my shoes at the front door and follow behind Miss Anna with my piano book. My socks collect tiny black and white hairs down the basement steps — Miss Anna’s cat, Melody, hiding somewhere.

I learn my first piece, fingers stumbling around still-foreign keys. Messages from my brain can’t seem to reach my left index finger. Miss Anna tells me to take a deep breath. Try again. Over the years, I have watched her instruct my children with the same kindness she extends to me. A few weeks ago, I finally mustered the courage to ask her if fifty years old is too late to learn an instrument. She doesn’t make me feel silly, even though my heart is pounding.

I tell Miss Anna it has always been a dream of mine. What I don’t tell her is how out of rhythm I feel. My body makes unfamiliar noises — knee pops and sad sighs. Words that used to flow easily onto the page come out in discordant spurts, or worse, don’t appear at all. I’m constantly out of step, bumping up against my teenage children. Is this the song of my second half?

I breathe like Miss Anna tells me. The notes on the page start to make sense, my hands and mind synchronize, and I hear music.

I wonder if Melody, wherever she is, pops an eye open, just for a moment, then falls back into a deep, rhythmic sleep, dreaming of Christmas.