Singing.

Memaw loves to sing. I remember her singing all the time when I was a child. She sang songs about love-lorn flowers and about gregarious pumpkins. She sang one song about an old mother receiving her son's last letter written on the battlefield before he died. I would cry and then beg her to sing it again. And again. She sang songs about wishing on stars and about dancing cheek to cheek. And she had and still has a pleasant, wistful voice.

Chailley said that historically music was written foremost for the benefit of the performer and then secondarily for the listeners who played an active part in the experience. Today, of course, music is written primarily for a record label. Once it was active, now it is passive. Today people buy albums and listen to them. Once people just sang.

I love music. And secretly I love to sing. I'm not good at it. My voice is wobbly and weak. But I enjoy it nonetheless. I used to pretend to be a singer in an opera while I showered. I would invent melodies and just warble. But I would never have considered singing in public.

Fain changed that. It started innocently enough. I would sing the songs that Memaw sang while I was washing dishes. It entertained him long enough for me to accomplish something. Then I'd sing classic baby ditties to him while he played. After a while, I began making up songs about broccoli and drooling while he'd eat. Then, gaining confidence from his obvious approval, I'd sing softly as we strolled to the park. Then while he was swinging. Now I'll sing anywhere (as long as I'm with Fain), and it just makes me happy. It feels like I'm letting something out.