Music in My Heart: My Journey with Melody

I admit that I did get a little lost in the music. Mrs. Porter clucks her tongue, but her eyes are smiling. She tells us to follow her. We cross the room, Melody humming the melody of the “Lift Every Voice” song softly. Her voice is pure and sweet, like Anika’s. I tell her that she’s a very good singer. She flashes a smile and says that they sang that song for Youth Day last fall. She shyly says she had a solo. I’m not surprised to hear that. If I had a voice like Melody’s, I’d be brave enough to sing all by myself. But I can never sing alone in front of a crowd.

Mrs. Porter waves us along, and when she puts her hand on my shoulder, I smell flowers. Mrs. Porter smells like flowers. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, we run into a woman wearing a tidy suit in high heels. Melody says that it’s Miss Dorothy, the choir director. Mrs. Porter asks if the youth choir is getting ready to leave. They found a member—me— playing her sweet heart out downstairs. Dorothy stares at me through her glasses and says the bus left fifteen minutes ago.

Melody sucks in her breath. But Miss Dorothy continues and says the choir is heading north for a few shows before coming back for the Tuesday night performance. Perhaps someone can drive me to catch the bus. I tell them it’s all all right. I can get myself back home. I don’t want to catch the bus, not knowing where it’s going. And besides, why would I want to leave Melody and Mrs. Porter right now?

Melody’s eyes sparkle with fireworks. If the traveling choir is coming back Tuesday, maybe someone from the congregation can let me stay with them till then. Maybe Big Momma can take me in. Mrs. Porter hesitates, then her face eases into a smile, and she says that they would never turn me away.

I can’t help but smile right back. There’s something so comforting about Melody’s grandma. As Melody wraps her arms around her, I want to hug her, too. When Melody says we’re going to have so much fun, I can already feel a tingle running from my fingertips to my toes, telling me I’m about to set off on an adventure.

Mrs. Porter says that my suitcase must be riding on the bus I missed. Suitcase? I didn’t think about that. I glance down at what I’m wearing. All I have is what’s with me. Melody says it’s okay. I can borrow clothes from her. She seems pretty happy that I’m staying.

As I follow her out of the church and into the sunshine, I remind myself that I can go home anytime I want. I just have to play the song, and I’ll be back in my bedroom as if no time has passed.

As we drive away from the church, Mrs. Porter asks if I’ve ever been to Detroit before. I tell her no. I’m only half-listening because I realize there are no seatbelts in the back of the car. Melody isn’t even searching for one. So I settle into my seat, too, and try not to worry.

Luckily, Mrs. Porter is a careful driver. She pulls to a stoplight, and the nose of her car stretches out long in front of us. All of the cars around us have long noses and are narrow. I’m used to being up higher when I ride in my mom’s SUV. Mrs. Porter says I’ll be seeing all kinds of new places with the traveling choir. It seems like a hundred years ago now, but she was once in a traveling singing group, too.

Melody pipes up and says that Big Momma was in a group with Miss Dorothy. A gospel group. Mrs. Porter winks in the mirror and says that Miss Dorothy and her are going to go hear some gospel music downtown after dinner. It’s a special show. The owners of the performance hall are friends from way back. Melody asks if she means Auntie Josephine and Uncle Al. Melody wishes she could go.

Mrs. Porter says that maybe we can. If Melody’s mother says it’s all right. Melody says that I’ll love the performance hall. There’s a big stage with a piano. They have lots of parties there and recitals. Melody’s youth choir was even on stage once. They have concerts with amazing gospel music.

I say that it sounds awesome. I’ve only heard gospel music at church, and on my grandma’s old records. I’m excited to go to a concert with Melody, but somehow, sadness creeps into my chest again as I think about Grammy.

But when we reach Mrs. Porter’s place, I feel better. The first thing I see is an old upright piano. It’s taller than Ms. Stricker’s, and there are flowers carved into the music stand. It’s beautiful. I wonder if Mrs. Porter would mind if I played. But she’s already nudging me with her hand. She says I can go on. As long as I play something pretty while she works in the kitchen.