A memory triggered by a photograph of music by the firelight.
By the firelight we singalong. We’ve asked eldest to bring out his guitar and he’s become our karoke machine. He knows so many songs. But he doesn’t sing aloud with us yet.
Hubby sings the loudest, to the beat of his own drum, daughter and youngest sing louder to help him sing with their tuning.
I sing if I know the lyrics to the songs they have chosen.
We sing to the moonlit cane.
Once we even see a horde of runaway rats in the trees once the cane provides no more shelter. Perhaps they have come to hear us sing, and we need to employ eldest like a pied guitarist to take them back into the fields.
Eldest’s voice has been breaking, and he’s kept it a secret. We have no idea what it sounds like yet.
Sometimes I think I hear him…
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