As movers load the upright piano onto a dolly, a cloudy ring from my teacher’s ice water glass recalls “Aragonaise,” from the opera Le Cid. I would have rather danced the ballet than played it. She would have rather performed than taught. So, she would twist the tip of her yellow mechanical pencil and prescribe hours of practice. I advanced like rotting fruit. She wept bitterly like Chimène, who had once tattooed laugh and play onto my eight-year-old knuckles and still allowed me to be who I was.