I sat alone about halfway back on the right-hand side of the large church auditorium, lost in thought. It was the funeral service for Mr. French, my piano teacher. I did not know any of his family but felt compelled to honor the man who had faithfully worked to make me a better musician. I remembered all the times I walked up the stairs of his brownstone home and into the front room, where the intense smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet sound of piano music flooded my senses.
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