John and I like to sing together. It is a nice format for calibrating a relationship.

 

One time I was singing faster than he was, and we finished at different times. 

 

"You won," he said. Of course that is not actually the point. 

 

Other times one of us goes flat or sharp, increasing the dissonance. Occasionally we will diverge around which verse we are on, and look askance at each other's moving mouths.

 

Then there are times when we are scheduled to play for church, and things go awry at home before we get there. We show up, and launch into a melody about lovey dovey stuff, when we are feeling more like porcupines tumbling in a dryer.

 

There is a secret power embedded in music. It opens the door to a gentler place. In shows like My Fair Lady and The Phantom of the Opera, the music flow easily from the storyline. The leading man feels romantic, and a love song complete with accompaniment erupts like a geyser.

 

But sometimes in my life it goes the other way around. I tentatively begin a ditty that describes how I once felt, and the affection leaks back in. The words come rolling out, not because I am bursting with affection, but because the emotions are waiting not so patiently in a corner of my heart for a chance to escape their solitary confinement.