She hadn't sung since the diagnosis.
Not in any organised sense. She hummed sometimes, in the kitchen, without meaning to — an old habit, something her body did without permission. But the choir she'd been part of for eleven years, the Tuesday evenings with the breathing exercises and the warm-up scales and the difficult conductor who was also, somehow, kind — she hadn't gone back.
Six months she stayed away.
Then a card came from the choir. Signed by everyone. Missing you on Tuesdays. No pressure. Just wanted you to know.
She went back on a Tuesday in November.
She arrived late, on purpose, so she wouldn't have to stand in the car park and talk. She slipped into the back. The warm-up was already done. The conductor saw her and nodded and didn't stop what he was doing.
She sang.
Her voice was out of practice, slightly rough on the top notes, uncertain in ways it hadn't been before. It didn't matter. The music was around her and she was inside the music and for forty-five minutes nothing was required of her except to be there, breathing, making sound with other people.
Afterward someone hugged her and said: we're glad you're back.
She said: me too.
She came the following Tuesday. And the one after.
You don't have to be okay to show up. You just have to show up.
