Long before I had to rise for school,I’d hear the deliberate feet of my Fathermoving in the darkness to his piano.Sometimes from my bedroom I could see him,dressed in concert slacks from the night before,a stained undershirt with rips in the pits.I’d drift to sleep and rise again to his musicseeming to fill up our entire house back then.Then as a cold sun rose over Milwaukee,he’d warm the old Nissan in the snowand drive us to school, twitching, sweatingand muttering to himself as cars rushed by.He’d often miss the turn; we’d be late—hurrying from the car, we’d say, I love you,and watch his hunched figure driving away.‘Don’t leave me here; I hate this snobby school,’I’d say, throwing my arms around my sister.She’d pull away, her face suddenly stern,‘Don’t you know what dad has sacrificed?’‘Now let me go’, she’d say, ‘we’re already late.’Standing there, I’d smell the leather couches,see girls in Polo shirts and saddle shoes,still hearing the clash of my Father practicingthat same riff—over and over again,louder and louder as the day wore on,the opening measures of Rhapsody in Blue.