I dreamt about my first love last night. It was an old, upright piano. Towards the end of our affair, it was so off-tune that the notes were barely recognizable. The finish was wearing thin in a few spots, and the bench was broken. But all of these things only made me love it more. I labored for countless hours over those old keys. I spent so much time there that the keys almost became an extension of my fingers. "Estey" was written in faded gold leafing on the chamber. Bach's first cello suite was the first song that it taught me, at age 11. I guess we never really get over our first love.