songs

The other evening, on my bed I called to you on the phone.  You weren't there, but Mom was.  I told her I wanted you to sing to me.  I wanted it more than I have wanted anything in a long time.  You came home a few minutes later, and you sang me a hymn that the barbershoppers had been singing that night in practice.  Then Mom played an old hymn on the piano and the two of you harmonized in worn, practiced perfection.

I miss you and I cried, I cried the whole time, the phone got wet and slimy.  You went to bed and Mom stayed on the line, repeated the weekly itinerary, spoke good to the night.  And I had just been reading about how parents die, and sing, but none of that was in my mind when I thought about my parents and singing.  No, it was all there with me, alone, with my parents' voices that I wished would reverberate in my rooms even after the fact.