She says she screamed my name when our car struck the guardrail and careened into the dark ravine, but I don't remember.

There are a lot of things I don't remember.

I don't remember getting in the car that night, nor driving along the slick, snow-covered roads with my girlfriend nestled in the passenger seat. They told me later that we were on our way to a dinner party to celebrate my acceptance into Julliard's famed school of music.

I was a pianist: a young prodigy who excelled at my craft. While my peers were busy being popular, I had spent my time perched on a wooden bench, my fingers flying across ivory keys, savoring every note that flowed from each string that was struck. Music was my life, the thing that got me through my angsty teen years. I couldn't get enough of it.

When the accident happened, I lost the ability to remember a lot of things. I forgot the year, the President, and even for a time, my dear girlfriend's name.

But nothing prepared me for forgetting how to play.

The first time I was home after months of recovery, I sat down at the creaky old bench in front of my spinet piano, eager to let my fingers dance to pleasing melodies. I opened the lid carefully and stared at the dusty keys. Tentatively, I reached out and pressed one. To my surprise, the note sounded harsh and unfamiliar to my ears. Pulling some loose sheet music from the cabinet beside the piano, I leafed through the pages, but the black marks looked foreign to my eyes.

The sickening realization crept over me as my fingers desperately fumbled across the keys. I finally threw the papers down in frustration and broke into guttural sobs.

• • • • •

"Everyone is in their seats. Are you ready to raise the curtain?"

I nod. The assistant ducks backstage, and a moment later, the thick curtain beside me begins to rise. A wave of applause sweeps over me. I rise from the wooden bench and bow in grateful acknowledgement to the crowd, my sweaty palms clasped together. As I reseat myself before the mighty instrument, the room falls silent. I lift my hands and rest them ever-so-gently against the white keys, my fingertips barely brushing their smooth surfaces.

The moment of my first concert has arrived.

My girlfriend had found me that day in front of the piano, sobbing while surrounded by scattered sheets of music. She had insisted I sit back in front of the instrument and try again.

And so I did. I tried that day and the next day and the next. I spent weeks, months, years, relearning chords and scales and technique and theory. And today, it is finally paying off.

I no longer remember the first time I played the piano. That memory is lost, perhaps forever. But I do remember the first time I played again. And that moment will always be the most precious of all.