By the firelight we singalong. We’ve asked eldest to bring out his guitar and he’s become our karoke machine. He knows so many songs. But he doesn’t sing aloud with us yet.
Hubby sings the loudest, to the beat of his own drum, daughter and youngest sing louder to help him sing with their tuning.
I sing if I know the lyrics to the songs they have chosen.
We sing to the moonlit cane.
Once we even see a horde of runaway rats in the trees once the cane provides no more shelter. Perhaps they have come to hear us sing, and we need to employ eldest like a pied guitarist to take them back into the fields.
Eldest’s voice has been breaking, and he’s kept it a secret. We have no idea what it sounds like yet.
Sometimes I think I hear him singing with his little brother at night. I sneak up to their door and put my ear to it, but I can’t quite hear it, or he has heard my footsteps and he stops.
Youngest tells me they sing ‘Purple Rain’ as they go to sleep. So someone in the family has heard him sing.
Fast forward a year later and we begin to hear his voice. Baritone, like a reincarnation of Bob Dylan but perhaps more refined and smoother. So amazing. Yet it still remains a secret to most of the world.
But then a few more hear him. He brings tears to people’s eyes even in his rehearsal not full flight mode.
He then sings to camera and we share it, and a few more hear the voice emerging. Somewhere in there is the soul of an artist. Yet like most young men he is unsure, and like many shy.
Gradually his firelight guitar, where we sang, becomes a fire within him – he will sing, and write and play.
As a mother I hope he will always have his song, growing ever deeper, and leading him to his future in whatever field he choses. Always there to be his friend, his firelight song.
(c) June Perkins