Second, even though my Tara couldn't be seen, she could be heard. I remembered the time when those tiny, pinkish fingers hardly grasped one of my fingers, they were even too pudgy to wiggle around and take the dry cereal on her high chair. Everything was so cute about her then, and she kept getting cuter until she was transformed into the wonderful young woman before me. At present, those same fingers regularly move like a blur across the piano keys to make the thing she likes best — music.
As for me, I mostly kept my vocal cords locked from sound during the actual moment we had to sing, for fear of letting the congregation hear something backed far away from the heavenly strain. That was fine with me. All I wanted is my clear view of the sunshine in my life, minus the back of Sister Jenkins head.
Who knows, maybe the Mormon Tabernacle Choir could use a proud Dad.
Bill Hill is from Idaho Falls.
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