I stood next to Mom as I do, since I take her to Church most Saturdays. All I could hear was her small, frail voice as she chanted. It was as though memory and habit had kicked in as she dutifully half sung the prayer. Her voice was a bit raspy. Yet it was one of the most poignant, quietly beautiful things I've heard.
I'm trying desperately not to become maudlin here. That would undermine anything I want to say. It might destroy whatever point I'm trying to make. But that small, frail voice.
I couldn't continue the chant myself once I actually heard Mom. That voice, little but lithe and lovely, overpowered me. I had to stop; I was too choked up, and it wouldn't do to upset her if she saw me upset. So I just listened, and, I think, appreciated the moment.
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