Route 7 Review - Page 80

Untitled Photograph Domenic J. Scopa without a date to help me with her history, my grandmother wearing a white blazer is singing, microphone in her right hand distanced from her mouth slightly more than usual She is belting a note, maybe from Holliday’s “Body and Soul,” her favorite song to cover. The audience in this church basement seems sold-out. After a while, because I know so much about her life, because the mute spotlight will never dim, I begin to wonder if my grandmother was beaten hours before this performance, if there is the beginning of a divorce she never filed, spring-like, in the air. Perhaps her singing is a pouring out so passionate, to these strangers lost in thought like Dementia patients in the terminal stages of the disease. Her children are probably home from class by now. Yet, she has chosen to confide in this audience, as she once did to her husband, who could never comprehend her any better. Of course, she may be perfectly content, and I am imposing time’s strange torque. Maybe her eyes are swollen, because she is completely captured by the slurred veneer of chords,