My granddaughter sat next to me at the piano waiting to start her first lesson. On the rack in front of us, the music for “Some Enchanted Evening,” stared back, which, but for Amy’s question, “Poppie, when did you learn to play the piano?” would have been unremarkable. When I didn’t respond, she insisted, “Poppie, who . . .?” “My aunt played and she showed me. Now, you know your alphabet, so let’s start there.” Amy wasn’t finished. “Does she still play?” “I don’t think so….” “Why?” “Well, I don’t know.” Sometimes we hide the truth because, as in this case, my student needed to hear the harmonies, not the dissonance of a woman once musically possessed. But, as the time passed, Amy’s question kept putting me back on Maple Street.