The Silent Singer
By Len Roberts
The girls sang better than the boys, their voices reaching All the way to God, Sister Ann Zita insisted during those practice sessions when I was told to mouth do, re, mi, but to go no higher, when I was told to stand in back and form a perfect 0 with my lips although no word was ever to come out, the silent singer in that third-grade class during the Christmas Pageant and Easter Week, the birth and death of Christ lip-synched but unsung while my relatives, friends and parents praised my baritone, how low my voice was, Balancing those higher, more childlike tones, my father said, Adding depth, my mother said, Thank God they had my huskiness to bring all that tinniness to earth, my great-aunt whispered, so I believed for many years in miracles myself, the words I'd never sung reaching their ears in the perfect pitch, the perfect tone, while the others stuttered in their all-too-human voices to praise the Lord.
Last very early post; we're doing family stuff in the morning and then driving home, so I might not be online till late afternoon. My older son has his first baseball game scheduled tomorrow and I want to know what genius decided it should be played the last day of spring break. I am hoping to stop at Boyd's Bears long enough to get some jam and gifts but it will depend on how quickly we get moving in the morning. I did manage to get all our laundry done during the endless procession of Easter greeting calls to the west coast, which is why I am still awake at this hour...
Am off to collapse. Hope everyone had a great Easter!