The woman I visited last January had trouble with a vocal cord. Do we each have two? I wondered if she would she be able to speak. Was it temporary? 

 

She was behind a curtain when I called out. In a raspy voice she invited me in. She gave no evidence of reluctance to talk, so we did.

 

"I was an alto," she told me. "The last time I sang was at a wedding."

 

"Was it wonderful?" I asked. 

 

She sighed. "Yes. My son and I made music together. He played piano. But he died."

 

"May I ask how?" 

 

"Cancer," she shrugged. "He moved in with us for the last year, so I could take care of him."

 

"I am so sorry." My words seemed thin. Too thin, for her losses. 

 

"All of my kids moved home at one point. When my daughter's marriage ended, I took her and her kids in. My brother, too, moved in when he was struggling. My whole life I have taken care of my family."

 

"You sound exhausted."

 

Her eyes filled up with tears. 

 

I wondered if anyone had visited. There were no flowers. Did they all see her as supremely capable? Did they expect her to get fixed up, and come home in time to make supper? 

 

Losing her voice seemed like a metaphor. Had she ever been able to voice her own needs? 

 

"I guess I am like Job," she whispered. I heard no anger, nor resentment. She had chosen to give generously to her children. Had she forgotten to teach them how to serve her? 

 

My pager went off and I said goodbye. But I am praying for her. Which needs no vocal cords at all.