Friday, March 30, 2012

Wet Cement

The memories are a gift, a legacy of hours sitting in circles in Grandma's back yard. We serenaded the neighborhood with folk songs and harmony's beauty that hopefully camouflaged the bad voices. There is a hodge-podge of instruments including kazoos. We made up in love of music what we lacked in stage quality.

And now my daughters have taken the passed baton. They sing in the other room, squeezed in together at the desk chair, intent on the screen. The YouTube karaoke is blaring. So are their voices. They belt out, uninhibited, Adele and Taylor Swift. Their harmony is sweet and sometimes gone-off-key. They laugh, regroup, and pick up where they left off. For hours they sing and fill my home with their music, and my mind with my memories, until we send them off to bed. They don't know it, but they are cementing their own family memories.

It is a gift they give me, but it is also a gift my family's legacy gives them. Because music speaks to the part of us that never forgets. My mother-in-law, succumbing to Alzheimer's, struggles with our names but can still sing How Great Thou Art. She's falling asleep to all that she has known except the lyrical and melodic.

Music reaches us in places that are untouchable by other means and cements its place there, a finger in wet cement scrawling, "Music was here," that hardens through the years into immeasurable gift.

Today's five minute Friday word is Gift.
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