An Alto In the Weeds

My mother didn't tell me
'til after my fifth-grade concert was over
but she used to stand outside the bathroom door
and listen to me practice singing "Hallelujah" in the shower.
"It was beautiful," she lied, and tried to imitate my pre-pubescent
butchering of the a capella, one-lyric hymn that I sang in chorus
(back when God was still almost tolerated in the Arts programs
of public schools, as long as no Muslims were on the roster).
She must've known that if she'd told me I would've stopped.
A mother always knows when you'll stop.
A mother knows you'll stop
before you do.



Currently reading:
"The Torrents of Spring" by Ernest Hemingway.