If she’s around, I always look at her when I sing. The tides on her brow rise and fall with my voice, and her eyes close with the sustain of every heartfelt note. And when I sing in praise of her favourite form of God, she smiles and raises her eyebrows on every beautiful word of praise. Then when the song is over, her eyes open and a pearl rolls down each of them.
My mother is my favourite audience. For all the good and bad shows I put up. For all the good and bad things I say. Through all my times, good and bad. I sing best when I know she’s listening. And looking at her engulfed in my voice is the most pleasurable sight. For when I sing, she is one with my song, and one with me. So much, that I sing, and she takes the breaths in between.