I walked into St. Andrew’s church, by the front doors, this time. Years of finding my way to the sanctuary by the side door had led me to forget there even was a public entrance, and it was odd to see the double doors thrown wide, light spilling onto Central Ave. The plush teal-blue carpet had the same slightly musty smell, my footfalls puffing up little invisible clouds of long-stale incense and candle smoke. There were more lights then there were on my Tuesday evenings spent there - large stage lights that gave off a heady heat. I imagined the feel of them on my face as I looked over the packed pews and was a little thankful that I would be sitting down, behind the glare tonight. It was the only thing I was thankful for.
I was to be a Christmas celebration. Not a mass, a concert. Secular and sacred, modern and traditional, the few hundred gathered had come to hear them sing. Some for the first time, some for the hundredth. Some, like me, for the first time on this side of the pews.
The first of the girls entered by the back door behind the altar. I pictured the line running down from the little staircase and the girls quickly checking that the folders were on their audience side. The light flashed mutedly off the silk of their cream gowns as they walked to their places in a double synchronized line. Smile to the audience. Don’t move a muscle.
He entered first, she following, heading to the conductor’s stand to bow. She sat down as the Pianist entered and bowed. The first song must be one of his. I hadn’t taken a program. I don’t know why, but the glimpses I caught of the familiar titles as I walked past other listeners seemed to pain me. I would listen, and try to be ignorant.
I missed it. My Tuesdays were empty now, my Saturdays filled with a new crop of activities. I had to leave it behind eventually, but deciding that then was the time was a hard decision. It had been part of my life for 10 years. Trips to Europe, Winning the CBC choral competition every year we entered, singing in Carnegie hall and representing Canada in international competitions. Things that made me proud. And the girls, best friends all with funny traveling stories and concert mishaps. Pranks, skits, little sisters and the new generation. I was 11 when I passed my audition to join the choral elite, but it was a hell of a lot more than a choir to us. You can’t sing as National Champions at that level without putting your whole heart into it, and we all did. And some of us left our hearts behind when we left.
Many Alumni are still involved with the choir heavily. Not me. More than geography, it is my heart that keeps me away. You can never go back home, they say, and Amabile was home. I learned after that first concert how hard it is to sit and watch, even now, almost 9 years since I have left the choir myself. I enjoy singing with the old group for “Amabile weddings” or other group reunions, but I can’t sit in the pews and watch while trying to stop the notes from spilling out of me with every ounce of restraint I have. It will always be this way, but that’s okay. Amabile was a huge factor in who I am today, who my friends are and what I believe is important, and that’s not bad for 10 years of work on John and Brenda’s part. The choir has done what it can for me, more than I can imagine, and now I need to do the rest myself.
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