When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother what will I be . . .
Nine of us sit in the small square music room of the newly-built and nicely-furnished residential home.
. . . Will I be famous? Will I be rich . . .
I bash out a well-known song on the old upright piano, persevering through the discordant notes, broken keys and stuck pedals.
. . . Here’s what she said to me . . .
The residents, who in speech struggle to string together a sensible sentence, sing along as I play.
. . . Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be . . .
They know these words and they know this tune, even if they don’t know they’ve met me half a dozen times before, even if they don’t know when or what their next meal is.
. . . The future’s not ours to see . . .
Neither the past nor the present, let alone the future, are theirs to see anymore. But, despite my fully functioning faculties, the future’s not mine to see either. None of us – whether residents, staff or visitors – know what will be. So altogether now, let’s sing it like we mean it –
. . . Que sera, sera . . .