I stood with my back to the room, scrubbing the stovetop while a full orchestra performed in our apartment.

The dishwasher stood in for the string section, producing various flowing harmonies and chords. Mercy used a box flap and a few toys to give light percussion to the group. A flutist perched in the tree outside and expertly warbled for us through the patio doors, while Liberty hummed a happy, mellow saxophone or French horn sounding melody, engrossed in her coloring at the dining room table.

I smiled at the spilled grease on the stove. "We're pretty blessed, you and I, aren't we?"

The stove agreed.