By Barry Yedvobnick

There were no sonograms in 1952. As the auditorium lights dim, I open my eyes and glance toward the stage. Mothers learned about complications like the smack across their newborn’s bottom. It’s framed by burgundy curtains. During your first minute, my obstetrician and nurse placed you on a table. The acoustic shell is maple, your favorite hardwood for sound projection. They examined your right hand, and I heard the words—developmental defect. Walking on stage, you pause beside the piano. Frantic, they tried to calm me. Spotlights rise and one hundred applaud. What’s wrong with her? Missing a pinky and ring finger? You touch right hand to heart and bow. Alone, as your dad waited elsewhere, I screamed his name. Dad takes my hand like he has for thirty years, interlocking our fingers, and you sit. Oh my God, can you fix her? Your eight fingers produce the exquisite refrain of Canon in D by Pachelbel. They brought Dad in, and I couldn’t speak, so I pointed. I study your hand and recall your struggles to master the modified techniques. He turned to the group surrounding you and demanded to know what was happening. You stand and bow.

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Barry Yedvobnick’s fiction is forthcoming at Literally Stories and appeared recently in The Phare, Sky Island Journal, Neither Fish Nor Foul, 10 by 10 Flash Fiction, Wordrunner eChapbooks, and elsewhere. His nonfiction writing received a 2025 Georgia Press Association Award. A retired scientist, he narrates stories for AntipodeanSF radio shows. http://www.chillsubs.com/profile/barryyedvobnick