My husband sits down at the piano, nothing grand, his phone propped on the stand in front of him open to the app with chords to any song. Dinner has been cooked, consumed, cleaned. There are three of us left at home after a crowded winter break, hovering in a Sunday night feeling, the top of the rollercoaster before the newest week, and our hands in the air, or gripping the rails, ready to scream.
“This song is all about your mama,” he says to the kiddo, and plays a song I once sang at a karaoke place in Catalina, years ago when the whole family had fun together.
“Is it okay if I play now?” He asks me, not wanting to disturb my writing effort.
“Yes.” It is essential that you play it now, I think.
I rise from my seat, go to the piano bench, and straining for notes, we sing.
Sing, to float away from the hurts of the day.
Sing, to revive the chambers of heart and lungs.
Sing, to remember the last time you laughed with your home crowd in a packed restaurant.
Sing, to channel your grandmother’s favorite love song, and your grandfather’s favorite lullaby.
Sing to make yourself cry, and sing to make your body get up and dance.
Sing to expand your lungs, and to release the pain on your breath.
Sing I don’t want to miss a single thing you do tonight.
Sing Hallelujah. Exult.