Introit & Fugue

After death, my father practices meticulously until the Bach is seamless, spun glass in a dream, you can no longer tell where the modulations are, or the pedal shifts or the split fingerings . . . if he rests it’s to wind the metronome or sip his cup of ice . . . but who is the other old man in the identical flannel gown, head cocked, listening ever more critically, deeper in the empty room?