It is one of my earliest memories. Her entering the dark room, walking to the window to pull back the curtain and let the sun shine in, humming “Amazing Grace.” When she was reasonably confident I was awake, she would drop the humming and burst into full-throated song. She has a deep, warm, honeyed voice and is partial to old hymns, though she’s never been much of one for church. Old hymns and Broadway choruses and Scottish lullabies. “Amazing Grace” is one of her favorites. As she sang, she would lean down to kiss my cheek and pull the blankets back, and I could smell tea and warm milk and love on her breath. Outside the thrum of New York traffic would be roaring to life. She would coax me to the mirror and wash my face with a warm rag, then brush my curls into pigtails. Singing the whole time. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see. . . . It’s been years since my mother has woken me with song, and it took me a minute to work out why the memory was washing over me now.
