Young Hearts

Standing at the kitchen sink, I hear no sounds throughout the house — no children talking, no dog barking, no TV or loud music playing — nothing but the running water of the faucet. I pause and turn it off, listening. Nothing. Something seems off; amiss. Why does the silence disturb me so this evening when I usually relish it; usually sink deep into its comfort and gather it around me like a warm, soft blanket on a cold, rainy day? What is it that bothers me about it tonight?

And then it hits me: He’s not singing. My son is not singing in the shower. Every night for as long as I can remember, he sings as he gets ready for bed. He sings everything — from Imagine Dragons to AJR to Broadway hits (thanks to his sisters) to made up songs. Tonight, he isn’t singing. My heart sinks a bit, my chest deflates into a sigh, and I go back to quietly washing dishes.

But a question slowly rises within: When did you stop singing? A rather innocent question, but it hits me hard. I used to sing all of the time. As a little girl I would walk the roads of my neighborhood singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” at the top of my lungs, oblivious to anyone around me. All through high school I’d sit by my radio or record player or cassette player singing along with the lyrics on the record sleeves. Once I could play a few chords on the guitar, I’d sit on my bed, strum my stumbling notes, and sing my heart out. But I realize tonight at the sink that I don’t really sing that much anymore.

I think of my girls, then. What did they used to do when they were younger that has since faded away? My oldest daughter used to twirl and leap and bourrée through the house. She now studies ballet in college, and every once in a while she will twirl her way through the kitchen, but not like years ago when every chore was done on her toes. My younger daughter would gallop through the house on a horse made of wood or of cardboard tubing or of whatever she could get her hands on that even slightly resembled a horse. Now she saves her galloping for the barn where she rides real horses; where she lives out her childhood dream everyday. But I’d treasure one more little-girl gallop through the kitchen.

I guess it’s another part of growing up. But sometimes I don’t want to accept it. Sometimes I just want to be like Peter Pan and stomp my foot and stubbornly sing as loudly as I can, “I won’t grow up!”

A little time has passed since I began this post. I have since heard my son sing in the shower again, and the other day my oldest came twirling past me to get to the refrigerator, and just yesterday my horse-lover galloped into the kitchen to give me a hug — okay, maybe it was more like a little skip, but I’ll take it. I smiled each time I noticed these faint remnants of childhood; these poignant actions that have started to fade. And I smile again as I write about them. Noticing the little things, which really aren’t so little after all, I realize. Noticing, and remembering. Remembering where our joy once came from and maybe even trying to bring some back again. Just a little. Like maybe one song at a time.

I wonder, what is it that your young-heart loved?

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash