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Sing Sunday, June 15, 2008

Posted by Grace in eating crackers in bed.
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Fearless sings.

Growing up, he did years with choirs and formal training. He doesn’t do anything too formal with it anymore, but he still sings. He sings in the car. He sings in the kitchen when we wash dishes together. Little snatches of lyrics from songs passing through his head. Things he heard on the radio, songs he loves, words that go with the moment.

He’s got this voice. One of those that seems bigger than the person who produces it. Low and just a little gravelly, with a certain dark strength that crashes over you. Sometimes it gives me chills.

I’ve been known to sing a lot. But something about his being trained, his talent, makes me nervous singing with or around him.

He’s commented on it, that it’s not fair that he knows I belt when I’m driving, that I sing in the shower; but that I get nervous and clam up when he’s there to hear it. There’s just something about knowing that he’s got perfect pitch on his side, and that he knows when you’re making the mistakes that gets me. And it’s strange, because with most things, a little bit of nerves will not stop me.

Yesterday, the moment was right. I had just arrived at his house, he had stepped out of the shower perhaps a minute or two before. His hair was still wet, he hadn’t made it into a shirt yet, and you could still smell traces of his soap. He hugged me, and it just kind of started.

He held me and I sang. It wasn’t for long, it wasn’t very good (but then a person is always their worst critic). But I could see in his eyes he appreciated the gesture, and now that I’ve started, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

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