Amazing Grace

Sandy gravel crunches as I shuffle to the center of the amphitheatre, accompanying my deep breaths. The sound makes me feel like I am being accompanied by history. In the breeze, centuries old voices whisper. I stand in their place.
Stone steps rise around me. They look down expectantly. They have seen this before. They know what comes next.
The sun is warm, but my fingertips are ice. I do not want to disappoint them. These worn grey spectators have witnessed more than any of the people privileged enough to take a seat and be a part of their story.
In this moment, faces stare blankly, waiting. I refuse eye contact and suck in as much air as I can. Shaking, my insides quivering with anxiety, fear, excitement.
I breathe in again, deeply, slowly, muttering disclaimers aloud while silently trying to chase the nerves, foreigners I wish would leave. They visit often, invading my sense of security and courage at the most inopportune time. In and out, I breathe again. In with the good, out with the bad.
I look into the sun behind my audience. Mother Nature’s spotlight, beautiful bright and blinding, obscures the faces of my audience. I can barely see them through her golden rays.
When Rick said, “Someone should sing,” he turned toward Caroline, “We need to hear what it would sound like!”
She refused, but the group became insistent, “We need to hear what it would sound like!”
My parents’ faces flashed like the scenes of a viewmaster. “I could sing,” I heard myself say.
“You sing?” They asked.
“I used to.”
“What songs do you know?”
Almost three years have passed since I felt the heat of stage lights. I haven’t practiced since; my voice isn’t in shape. On any other occasion these facts would have kept my mouth shut, but I know that if my parents were here, they would beam at the very thought of it.
I could barely remember my once vast repertoire, but there is one song I never forget and in minutes, I found myself being shuffled down to center stage, muttering disclaimers as I tried to stir up the courage to sing in this place.
This moment is not a personal showcase. My voice will not lure spectators. This place, its constant presence throughout time – that is the beauty here. No note will ever match the splendor of its history or the majesty of the Sicilian countryside serving as a backdrop.
I flood my lungs with air; drop my shoulders and becoming a part of the ancient Grecian chorus, I sing that one song that always comes to mind.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.”