"I wake up to the sound of music/ Mother Mary comes to me/ Speaking words of wisdom/ Let it be" Somehow, this morning, those words from the Beatles feel right. In the next room, my daughter is singing, something she is rehearsing for a choir performance, and she has got it spot-on, perfect, every note clear and pure.

Beside me, my husband is sleeping, looking ridiculously young as he lies there, curled up, clutching the pillow. The cats snuggle, purring at our feet, and the spring light breaks through a crack in the curtains, dazzling me till I turn my head.

It seems to me that I can hear more than a single voice, swirling around my head. There are swelling violins, supporting the sweet soprano. A piano, playing a single repetitive note, like a heartbeat, rock solid beneath, and harmonic chords from some unknown instrument -- a glass harp perhaps -- that rounds the whole thing out. A concert, here in my mind, unutterably beautiful.

I sigh, a deep, contented sigh, and stretch, tranquil and happy.

As the song ends, silence falls slowly, the accompaniment in my imagination continuing after the voice has ceased, those harp chords -- or were they chords of sun? -- becoming the last dying echo.

In the quiet, more Beatles lyrics float to me, and they, like the others, are true and right. -- "I feel fine"

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