It is late, nearly midnight, but my thoughts are full and I feel much like writing. We spent time, tonight, with a dear elderly couple who love us to pieces and make one's face an explosion of rosy embarrassment.
Harold is a pianist, an amazing one. He played many of our favorite Broadway songs, his fingers rolling fluidly over the soft keys, his voice rising from his chest while his chin bobbed up and down in the effort of his vibrato. His long fingers would flip through the worn pages of his music books, stopping on a song to glance up at us with delighted eyes, then launching into the rolling chords of the tune.
Judy stands beside him, singing with composed abandon, relishing the fun of the songs. She knows the words by heart. The melodies are wrapped like an endless yarn ball in her head. Her eyes are glittering, alive with song, as if even her thoughts rang with melody and music. She loves old books and old music, loves the sound the piano makes when her husband sits at it, loves her husband, and loves us.
It was their first visit to our house, a house whose walls and floors and furniture were dusted and tidied to the best they could be, a house ready and waiting for them. We had spent the whole long day and the day before preparing for our guests. Now we sat within its walls, mixing our hearts and voices.
We sang Judy to their car, our voices loud under the stillness of the night. The moon glittered down, lifting the sound of our voices like stars from our hair, carrying us into the velvety depths of the sky.
The car doors closed after them all too soon. Their voices cried good bye. Harold's hand waved from behind the clouded car window.
And Johanna, Grace and I sang out way back into the house, closing the white door behind us whilst our voices faded to happy whispers.