This time of year will forever remind me of the
St. Patrick’s choir family of my youth.
Eyes closed, head tilted. She began. Piercingly crisp like winter’s fallen flakes.
I, on the opposite end of the choir loft. High above worldly eyes and adolescent expectation. It was worth it, to maybe get caught caring.
When Anne Baldwin sang.
“Ave, Maria….”
Babies still as stain glass rattled.
When Anne Baldwin sang.
“Ave, ave dominus…”
Awe quieted fear pushing the pendulum toward hope.
When Anne Baldwin sang.
Misshapen memories rest softly in smiles of friends now gone. Past but ever-present.
When Anne Baldwin sang.
