The only percussion their voices needed was the tapping of his brown leather shoe on the leg of the microphone stand. The mic was adjusted short to their wooden chairs, so the center of the stand hit the floor as sharply as a snare in 2/4 time.

I wished she would sing more; he wrote, and played, and sang, and even tapped, but it was her blending harmonies that rounded the notes and made them beautiful. But she was happy to sit with her hands in her lap. Her voice would rise with his, creating the soul of the sad song as she watched her husband from beside his center stage, nothing but love in her eyes.