Songs they have sung for a thousand years

   Mom watched me as I took down the Pilgrims, trying not to tear the print or the wall. Those removable strips are usually reliable, but if you tug too hard or at the wrong angle, the wall is wounded.
   In its place I hung up her old classroom poster of Betsy Ross showing the American flag to two guys while her daughter shows a dolly to George Washington. Betsy's ankles are exposed and she's blushing. I'm not at all sure what is supposed to be going on in the image.

   Mom said, "That's a beautiful picture."
   She said, "That never happened."
   She said, "Captain Loyall is dead."
   She said, "Did you do that beautiful picture?"
   She said, "That never happened."

   I put on the CD of the Sound of Music, and over the course of about an hour and a half, she told me about 15 times "that never happened" and asked again if I had made the beautiful picture. But she loves Julie Andrews, really loves her voice, and I hoped the music would delight her eventually. It did.
   After a while, she started to sing one line: "The hills are alive."
   I praised her like she was a child handing me a birthday present.

   When Sunny wheeled in and began monopolizing my focus, Mom added to her rotation of statements, "Are you going to sing it?"
   And so I found myself awkwardly listening to Sunny talk about her troubles and the latest gossip in the home — the new social worker walked out after two weeks — while singing along with Andrews' high, clear soprano and probably screeching. Mom and I are good altos, but we're altos. I tried singing while looking Sunny straight in the eyes, and nodding.
   So weird.

   Mom said, "You're wonderful."
   Mom sang, "The ... hills ... are... alive."
   Mom said, "I hate being old."
   Mom said, "I love you."
   Mom said, "Are you going to sing it?"
   Mom said, "That never happened."
   Mom said, "Captain Loyall is dead."

   I did sing it, really, really well.