from South Shore Road

...The piano had been there since before he was born, it was more of a fixture than anything else in the house. He'd taught himself to play out of an old yellow songbook. He remembered his mother standing with her hand on his shoulder singing Killarney, that beautiful voice she had. Years ago, right enough. He'd still been living at home when she died. She was young.
     He opened the lid and touched the keys, the first time since he came back. The first time in a long time. It was out of tune, all the way up the board. He splayed his fingers into a chord, how did Killarney go, it was a G, but the dissonance...was that the word? Dissonance was supposed to lead to something, it was supposed to beg resolution. It wasn't dissonance. It was just a noise, a mess.