My Mom loved to sing. She sang to me when I was little, sitting on her lap in the rocking chair. She hummed constantly as she worked, sometimes a tuneless melody of her own, and at times just some song from the radio that got stuck in her head.
But the singing. Always the singing. She sang along with the radio in the car, even when she drove my friends and I from place to place. They thought it was funny. I thought it was embarrassing. But she didn’t have a bad voice. Her voice is something I dearly miss now.
I loved to listen to her sing as she did housework, her mind on who knows what but the songs always came. It was comforting to me, hearing her. From nursery rhymes to Beattles tunes, Jim Croce to Barbara Streisand, she had songs inside of her bursting out. She wasn’t showy, it was just her happiness bubbling forth, the songs on her lips that went with the smile on her face.
I miss the smile. I miss the songs. Mom was always singing.
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