It begins soft, like the touch
of fingertips trailing your neck,
each note a sensation, a memory
from a deep pocket in your heart.
I sit by the window—
light slanting across my face,
as if the song brings back the warmth
of someone who is no longer here.

Stréliski plays as though
she knows the precise measure of aching—
the heft of it—how it brands into the chest,
drawing you forward,
closer to the keys, closer to the past,
closer to the place where a single chord
could bring you to your knees.

The piano returns—
the way her hands hovered,
above the keys
like a sparrow deciding
whether to take flight or stay,
the way she would play until dawn.

With eyes closed,
the melody gathers,
a gust through bare trees,
the kind of wind that tugs at your coat
and uncovers the truth
you have been trying to avoid.

In the music,
I see her hands, veined and sure,
holding the ache of a life spent
between silence and song.

The last note hangs,
suspended like the final break
before silence.
It’s not an ending—
more like the pause
when the wind shifts,
and you feel it—
this change, the way
it both moves you forward
and leaves you behind—
making you want to listen
all over again.