The last time I played Moon River for Mom had been at her wake at Valhalla. Most of my Moon River renditions of recent years, had been played for Mom and Dad on Monsieur Winkelmann over the telephone from Cadrieu.
Once my childhood piano (now christened "Violette") arrived on Columbus Street, I managed to play one more rendition of Moon River for Mom and Dad over the phone with her before the Christmas holidays.
The one time I played Moon River on Columbus Street since, I expected to be sad. I expected to shed a few tears. What I didn't expect was remembering every time I'd ever played Moon River for Mom in all these years. The choke came when my memories returned to Monsieur Winkelmann and the Chatette.
Next time I call to play Moon River across the 5000 miles and an ocean between us, Mom won't be with us on the other end of that telephone line.
But you know, I bet she'll be sitting right there on those stone porch steps watching: the buddleia blooming; the Lot River roll by; and, be able to hear Dad and I chatting away after I play Moon River from my very own Moon River. She'll turn around and say: "Oh, that's so beautiful sug." And I'll know: it is now "our" very own Moon River.
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