THE FIRST TIME I walk across that stage, I see nothing. The people and children who sit in the rows and rows of chairs are gone. I want to reach out and see if I can feel a nose, an eyelid. Fishermen always talk about how dark the night is out at sea. So dark that if you fell into the water, no one would be able to find you. Not until dawn. And by then, you would have drowned.

THREE WEEKS BEFORE my fifth birthday, I am sitting in the low pews of a small church. A beautiful woman in a turquoise dress is holding a curved piece of golden-brown, varnished wood. She lifts the instrument to her chin. Her arms are poised but relaxed, like the first pose in a classical ballet. Her left fingers move up and down while her right arm opens at the elbow in slow, languid lines. Her eyes are closed for the entire song, as if she is teleporting herself to another place – a meadow with flowers, a cave with fireflies, the middle of the ocean. Her torso moves with the hills of the melody and the more she sways, the more her brow furrows as if she is in pain. With her, we are gathered for something special. Without her, we are just people dressed in spring colours sitting in God’s room.