Classically trained since the womb– really, her parents, orchestra musicians by living and reputation– had placed a metronome next to the belly to ensure she would never be one of those kids who couldn’t keep time, who had no rhythm, who could not dance. And as soon as she was able to move her hands with intent her parents set up a piano and she went through the masters, while also composing her own melodies. More soulful and sad in sound, her mother would ask why she came up with such dreary ballads– why not a spry Alouette, a sunny Gavotte, or a Bouree? She never knew how quite to respond except to keep playing. Her parents never said much to her anyway; they had always loved each other first, then music. A pair sharing one stand. Their daughter was a composition of those two loves.