By:
Emily B.
Getting up early on a Monday is lousy, but getting up on a
vacation Monday means the start of an exhausting and sleep deprived day. I’ve
been told that sacrifices should be made for other people, yet sacrifices take
more mental stamina than I thought I could give at 7:00 A.M.
Still, I’ve also been told that people are like candles, and we must burn
ourselves up to light others up.
Delmar Gardens was like a small village painted green, out
of which memories of walking with family were born, and memories of a childhood
were lost. This was the destination in mind as my mother, sister, and I piled
into a shining red van. This time Delmar Gardens would be a different experience
from the last 100 times that I had visited. Those times, my grandfather
would be waiting in his tiny room, trying to recall who the familiar faces in
photographs. I would rush in, sing songs and set up decorations as he had
intelligent conversations with my mother. He was the only genius I’d ever
met.
The car ride to Delmar was familiar and the conversations
were standard, but no one dared to bring up what we were all thinking, what a
shame Grandpa won’t be there to watch us sing. Hands quivering, I hesitated
before walking into the beautiful building with cheerful lights. How could a
home look the same, when an obvious difference could be felt from within?
I pushed open the glass doors to a crowd of women and men,
each displaying wrinkles and scars of all different forms. Although many of
them couldn’t remember that they have lived through decades of rich history; they
are wiser than I am.
My family and I walk to a makeshift stage, carrying bags
of wires and mics, and began to unpack our gadgets that seem to be unfamiliar
to our audience. The stage is a comfort zone, with the mic calling me to belt
out a song, and the amp always more than willing to create balance between my
voice and the instruments. These moments when it was just me in a spotlight
were the most exciting and these moments when I was in the spotlight were the most
nerve wracking.
Of course, I didn’t have a spotlight or an audience of
over 200, I only had the eyes and ears of 15 eager souls. Still, it made no
difference to me, I would still be performing. My hands twisting the sides of
my dress, my feet swaying my body like a willow tree in the breeze, my mother
started the music. What came next was nothing out of the ordinary for me. After
each song came another. The nurses passing by to check on the residents gawked
at our performance, taking in every ounce of talent that we gave out. With my
sister beside me, our voices synchronizing and sacrificing our vocal chords so
that we could hit that one perfect note. And it was bittersweet.
I knew that when I looked around Bill
Drost, the most enthusiastic man at Delmar, would not be in the front row, but
would merely be replaced by another person with lost memories. But, oh, how the
music would bring them back as they remembered every word of “Amazing Grace”. The music was a
recollection that they could grasp and hold onto, until they watched me push
open the glass doors and leave the building and the crowd of scarred, yet
beautiful, people.
I realized that singing was more than just a sacrifice of
my free Monday morning, it was honoring the memory of my grandfather. I could
have closed my eyes again, cuddling under the cozy blankets, but I got out of
bed that morning. I remembered that as a person, I am also a candle, and I must
first burn myself up, to light others up.
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