Suddenly, the child is out of vision range and there is no sound to indicate his whereabouts. I wander the house for a moment to find him, sitting with his back against the sofa, pink sippy cup perched atop his piano, which he has dragged across the room to this “comfy” spot. He is looking the keys to his instrument over like he might be silently composing an overture. When I walk into the room he gives me an innocent look as I snap a photo. I smile, and then back off, giving him space to continue whatever creative process is going on in his mind.
I would hate to impede the next Tchaikovsky, after all.