She opened the clarinet case and carefully assembled the instrument. “It’s sad,” she said, running her finger down its shiny body. What my mom meant was that she was sad—and this was one of those times when words means something different from what you want them to mean, but what they mean is more true than you know. “Yes,” I said, looking at Dad’s clarinet, sitting awkwardly in her hands. “It is sad. It’s very sad.”
