Most of my memories are music.
My grandfather sitting at the Tabernacle organ, his fingers dancing across the keys.
Duets sung by my parents as I drift to sleep, safely tucked beneath my Holly Hobby bedspread.
A lullaby to my firstborn son as he lay in the clear plastic incubator.
Music has always been part of my life. It thrums through my blood and skates across my skin. I sing in the car. I sing in the shower. I sing at work. I sing through the highs and lows of life, belting my emotions into the void in an effort to reach catharsis no appointment with my therapist will ever bring.
I do not sing for my husband.
My best friend tells me this is odd; she sings to her husband all the time. “It’s what musical people do,” she says. I am a musical person, therefore it follows I should sing to the people I love.
I sing for my children.
I sing for my ward.
I sing for my coworkers.
I once sang for a group of drunken Jews at a karaoke bar following an orthodox wedding.
I do not sing for my husband.
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