“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame. Baby, you give love…a bad name.”
My neighbor across the way has been singing again. Bon Jovi is not her usual, however. She is an opera singer.
I am privileged to listen to opera almost every night. This woman is apparently practicing for an upcoming performance. Although I do not typically welcome any loud noises while settling in and eventually drifting off to sleep, this is different. Her voice would never qualify as “noise”. She sounds so beautiful, I find myself opening my kitchen window and remaining quiet so as to get a taste of her arias. I am grateful to have my bathroom window open in her direction as well, so that she can sing me to sleep.
We have never met. I don’t even know where she lives. She has made me so relaxed, I forget that my other neighbors nearby have porch lights that could light up a football field, which might as well be shining directly into my bedroom.
She is MY opera singer. I am being serenaded by her sweet dulcet tones, and can almost feel the tension release upon hearing her first notes. I also have the tune called “Opera Singer” by Cake stuck in my head all the time now. So, when I am not home I often think of her. A part of me wishes for her to remain anonymous, so as to retain the mystery. Of course, I am also dying to put a face with the voice. For now, I will just enjoy my nightly concerto in the comfort of my adorable little home.
My neighbor across the way has been singing again. Bon Jovi is not her usual, however. She is an opera singer.
I am privileged to listen to opera almost every night. This woman is apparently practicing for an upcoming performance. Although I do not typically welcome any loud noises while settling in and eventually drifting off to sleep, this is different. Her voice would never qualify as “noise”. She sounds so beautiful, I find myself opening my kitchen window and remaining quiet so as to get a taste of her arias. I am grateful to have my bathroom window open in her direction as well, so that she can sing me to sleep.
We have never met. I don’t even know where she lives. She has made me so relaxed, I forget that my other neighbors nearby have porch lights that could light up a football field, which might as well be shining directly into my bedroom.
She is MY opera singer. I am being serenaded by her sweet dulcet tones, and can almost feel the tension release upon hearing her first notes. I also have the tune called “Opera Singer” by Cake stuck in my head all the time now. So, when I am not home I often think of her. A part of me wishes for her to remain anonymous, so as to retain the mystery. Of course, I am also dying to put a face with the voice. For now, I will just enjoy my nightly concerto in the comfort of my adorable little home.
