goodbye, my dear ( part 4 )

The doors and windows were shut tight, the curtains drawn. We did say practice, but it wasn't to be that simple. I hadn't opened my vocal chords for a month. The most I squeezed in were the warm up exercises, which Ms Woodley insisted I complete every morning and evening, even if I didn't sing that day. She drove it into my head so deep that the exercises had become an integral part of my routine.

"The next few days, we are going to open up your voice fully," Ms Woodley explained. "And since we might not always be very pleasant, we'll try our best not to disturb the neighbours or any passerby."

A nod was all the answer needed.

It was a while before I could get back to my best. And then, we were riding the fast winds, as Ms Woodley put it. Many generations ago, her family was made up of hunters and rangers. She was convinced some of the old blood flowed through her veins. And so, she called upon the elements often when making a point.

Maybe, she rubbed off on me. Sometimes when singing, I could almost feel something. I could never be sure though, if it was more than my imagination.

Ms Woodley seemed inspired. The more we sang, the more excited she was. Forgetting her age and tiring herself. And then, easing smoothly into the role of a teacher. Sitting herself in a chair and mutely directing my voice. I didn't know what it was, but she was clearly aiming for something.

The afternoons were the best. As we lounged in the patio, indulging in the drowsiness post lunch. Giving our voices wings to fly free, without rules or expectations. Just exploring the vast open sky. She called it an exercise in imagination. An exercise that was absolutely necessary. As usual, I didn't understand the necessity, but I did enjoy the exercise. It was the time when I felt that something most clearly in its vagueness.

We were so lost in the practice, that we forgot entirely about the results of the exams. And the college applications. It wasn't until the morning the thick envelope was delivered by postal mail that we remembered.