Papa in his polyester pants next to me on the piano bench. Rolling his tan hand across three black keys, he taps a fourth key twice with the outside of his balled-up hand—the piano singing out this parlor trick song.

How does he make the notes sing out like magic? When I practiced each day until Mother’s timer went off, the piano’s notes plunked along like its battery was dying.

Motion by motion, Papa shows me how to play the song, and I try to follow with my tiny hand. On my own set of three black keys, I clumsily roll my fist, hitting the notes with an irregular rhythm—my hand just won’t reach. We will try again next year.

On the thin, yellow keys, worn with play, Papa tries again. This time, he performs a little seesaw melody with his index fingers, “I dropped my dolly in the dirt,” he sings, hitting the note that matches his tone, “I asked my dolly if it hurt,” he sings on, “but all my dolly said to me was wah, wah, wah.”

On the "wah, wahs," the melody plunges into the bass clef, finishing with a low E, D, C—Papa’s final “cry” is a low bass note that makes me laugh.

Four hands on the keyboard—two big and worn by farming, two little and yet unmarred, dropping “my dolly in the dirt” over and over.

The poor dolly had a terrible day, but I had a great one.