rachThe saffron streak of the four o’clock sun streamed across

Esther’s living room, illumining the room with an amber glow.

She gazed at her wedding album, passing from photo to

photo taken at the Imperial Hotel in Lavasan. How the

years had changed her. She felt old as she compared

her former self with the middle-aged woman she had become.

Her hands! How they now reminded Esther of her grandmother’s

hands.  She sighed: “My dear hands… Farewell, my poor hands.”

Were her hands the key to her suffering? Surely, she

thought, they signaled the cruel passage of time. Lost youth.

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Paraphrases from the article “The Diagnosis of Art: Rachmaninov’s Hand Span.”

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