She sang in the kitchen. Not every morning and not always well. She remembered songs that she learned as a child. Certain sweet vacation bible school tunes that drifted into the air, mixing with the smell of over cooked pancakes and dark coffee. She was a lousy cook, but she made great coffee.

She sang songs that she had heard on the radio. She would sing those in the evening while she danced with the dish towels and I read the paper. Sometimes she was off key and usually she made up the words, because she didn't really know the song that well.

We both laughed when she missed an entire verse. She sang in the basement, while folding laundry. Old Beatle songs, James Taylor and the Police. The concrete walls added a low tenor to her voice. It was a beautiful echo that rose out of the air vents in the upstair hallways.

That was all a long time ago. Our house still has a kitchen. We sometimes eat pancakes on the weekends when we aren't so busy. There is even a stereo that plays on sunny days or cool spring evenings. But no one sings along when the music is on and there are many evenings I am the one who turns it off as I come to bed. There is still laundry, of course.

She doesn't sing anymore and I don't ask her why. She would probably say I didn't appreciate it. I would say she doesn't know what I think.

I get no answers
and I don't get no change
It's raining in Baltimore, baby
But everything else is the same
counting crows

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