I met A–– when we were teenagers, singing in the state fair youth choir. He went on to have an admirable career in music, and currently heads the music department at a prestigious private school. I don't see him often, but when I do, he wants to sing together, and I usually put him off. "I've lost my voice," I say, or claim (truthfully) that sporadic sinus/ear problems cause me to hear sounds at dissonant pitches rendering me tone deaf. But a month ago, he and his husband were visiting Ohio, and I agreed to sing carols at the hotel's piano.
I'm not just out of practice; I really have lost my voice. My voice is thin, and my breath control is shot. I don't have the top third of my old range. I don't know what correct pitches "feel like" in the range I have left. I've lost the habit of good technique, and it was embarrassing to squeak out notes alongside my professional-voice-coach friend with his beautiful, richly resonant voice.
I knew I wasn't a musician anymore. I was never great, but I had talent and got by, never putting in the practice to get better once I left school. And although I was a little wistful about that, I didn't really mind. In a real sense, knitting had replaced music as my defining hobby. I'm a better knitter than I ever was a musician, if that makes any sense.
A–– always believed I was a better singer than I thought I was, and though he was too kind to say, I expect he's disappointed in me, leaving what talent I had to wither from neglect. And singing with A––, I realized I too am disappointed in me. I resolved to make an effort to strengthen what's left of my singing voice.
The next week, I looked up when Columbus Gay Men's Chorus would hold voice placement auditions, and I made an appointment.
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