I had forgotten that Agnes could sing.
And here she is and here I am and there Stephen is playing a few chords on the piano as she bends her long slender neck way back, points her formidable chin at the peaked ceiling of their Victorian home, opens her throat so wide I can see her larynx vibrate, and issues forth tones so rich and passionate that I, her captive and willing audience, must step back and catch my breath before sucking it up like sweet cocoa.
Of course Agnes can sing. How could I possibly forget?
Stephen’s fingers plunge into the keyboard further firing her bliss as her song bounces off the walls, teapot, music stand, my glasses -- her voice so pure it softens my heart, breaks it, then crochets it back together again as her eyes roll up into her head. This is no longer the middle room of the house on Nelson Street in Stratford Ontario, but Carnegie Hall on 57th Street in Manhattan; and Agnes, its brightest star, pours out song after song bringing an adoring crowd to frenzy in her red satin gown and concert tiara.
Bravo! Bravo! I shout as Stephen segues into her favorite song: “Indian Love Call.” One quick breath and she’s off again claiming it, shaping it, filling the hall with her soul as roses are thrown, dozens and dozens, filling the stage with crimson.
I can’t bear it any longer. Tears flood my face. I buckle to my knees consumed with laughter as Agnes the Diva continues to relentlessly defy the fact that she is none other than a much loved black and white freckled Border Collie.
South Baltimore serves as the backdrop for this gripping story of three brothers leading very different lives but joined forever by the secrets of a painful family past.
A homonymless man writes shows what it's like to look up the laid he skirts when you’re lying prone(d) to the sidewalk, beer / joint / needle dangling from your hand /lips / arm.
