When I was 3 years old I slammed the garden gate on my 5 year old sister's hand and amputated the tip of her right middle finger. The wound healed with the fingernail curving over the shortened finger like a hawk's beak.
My sister became a gifted pianist in her teenage years.
Her talent was recognised by the nuns who taught her pianoforte at the Presentation Convent she attended for lessons, and subsequently she was granted (by examination) the Associate in Music Australia Diploma, a diploma awarded to outstanding candidates by the Australian Music Examinations Board in the fields of musical performance and music theory.
She was invited to perform before the Sydney Conservatorium of Music for possible admission, but the "click click" of her deformed middle finger was a deal breaker, and she was not selected.
But our childhood home was filled with beautiful music, our Dad's love of Debussy filling our home with the beauty of Claire deLune.
The years passed, she married a high school science teacher, and the piano, too large for their small house, was given to a friend.
My sister's home is now filled with the cacophonous commentary of rugby league games on TV.
She never played music again
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