How Sweet the Sound

I used to sing to my son at night.

Rubbing his back, trying to help him fall asleep, I would sing a trio: Two songs I learned at Girl Scout camp, “Peace I Ask of Thee, O River” and “Taps,” and then I’d wrap it up with “Amazing Grace.”

I often botched the verses of “Amazing Grace.”

But by that point, he would usually be asleep. And I don’t think God cared about me getting it wrong.

The other day, I asked my son if he remembered me singing the songs to him, and he looked at me, surprised.

“No?” he said.

He had zero recollection.

But I had been so determined to sing to him.

I love to sing. I used to sing in a church choir. And I come from a musical family. My mother was studying to be an opera singer when she met my father. My grandfather was a musician and had his own orchestra. My siblings and I all learned to play two instruments.

I don't play anymore, but my siblings do.

And I tried to get my son to learn an instrument when he was in grade school, but he had zero interest. He was more interested in hockey and football.

Once though, when my son and his dad and I were in Saratoga, NY, we were having breakfast in a hotel. There was a giant gymnastics tournament going on that weekend, and the room was full of kids and families. As we were finishing, a guy who was sitting nearby stopped at our table.

“He has the music in him,” he said, pointing to our son, who was about four.

We must have looked puzzled.

“I have been coaching kids for 20 years,” he said. “And some kids have it in 'em, and some don't. I have been watching your son. And he's been be-bopping to the music the whole time.”

I hadn't even noticed there was music on. And we were probably telling him to stop fidgeting, to stop swinging his feet.

Today, it seems a travesty that my son does not remember me singing to him. That was one area where I was fully present in his childhood. Here I thought I had been a good mom, tucking him in every night.

And he doesn’t remember me singing to him at all.

But has told me recently that he has been writing. Song lyrics! Which I make sure to point out to him is poetry. And don't forget, son, that I have an MFA in poetry. We are alike, I remind him.

He usually rolls his eyes. But once in a while, he shares something he has written with me. Or a song that he found on Spotify that he loves.

Otherwise, he goes on, living his life, mostly forgetting to call or text me. He is fiercely independent, off swinging his legs and fidgeting somewhere else, away from home. He focuses on his friends and does his guy-in-his-twenties thing.

I recently read the book Wintering—a beautiful book, especially in this winter that we are all in (and I don’t mean the season).

In it, she writes, “When I sing to my son, I am teaching him something: not just words and lyrics, but how to survive,” she wrote. “Like the robin, we sometimes sing to show how strong we are, and we sometimes sing in hopes of better times. We sing either way.”

I hope I have taught my son how to survive.

I know he sometimes sings in hopes of better times.

And I hope he knows we must sing either way.