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Show show choir, shading our eyes when we took on the role of Zacheus looking out from the tree, wagging pretend lanterns at our sides when we sang this little light of mine. I loved performing and looked forward to practice on Tuesdays. Even though anyone could join the choir, I felt special. Choir practiced in the evenings, after the sun had set and we had eaten dinner. I felt older than my twelve years walking up the stairs to the chapel, entering the empty church, the stained glass windows now dark. For the first few years, I went by myself, without Scott who would join later, so the experience was all mine. I was also one of the oldest members, entering the chapel last on days we performed because of my height to take my place on the back row. We practiced in the balcony, hovering at the same level as the chandeliers. Each Tuesday, Mrs. G, the conductor, would tape a treat under one of the brown folding chairs. I wished every time for it to be mine. I loved hanging above the empty chapel, the windows below me, waiting to hear Mrs. G. sing our newest song. I loved the orderly way we walked into the church on Sundays, from shortest to tallest, singing the whole way. I loved our robes, the way they hid our regular clothes, the sheer number of them closeted in the cloak room. I would ask my mother to take us to church early and hurry to sort through the stained and worn sheets looking for one that came down to my shins and was thick enough to hide the patterns in my dress. The days we performed were magical tome. Then came the spring of sixth grade, when I was asked to solo in our final concert of the season. Mrs. G gave me a tape of the song I was to sing and I took it home and practiced diligently. In ways I never did with the piano, I went over and over the music. So much was at stake. Yes, an audience occupied by both my parents, but more keenly 148 |
