We live so close to one another here in LaLa Land. My apartment sits at the back of the building; the buildings behind sit 15 feet away. On beautiful days, we open our doors, windows and lives to one another.
This is LA, so it follows that a woman in the next building is an aspiring singer. She practices daily, and friends join her on Sunday evenings. Someone always plays piano, and occasionally someone brings a guitar. Six or eight voices join in. This afternoon someone is whistling. The sound is bright and clear and beautiful in a way so much music is not these days.
This time in LA is filled with strange graces. None of them equal my granddaughter's presence, but they keep me focused on the present, remind me that things don't have to be perfect to be good.
Ohhhh-Uuuuhhh-Ohhhh, she sings. Her voice and the piano and the whistle echo down the stucco canyon, bouncing from balcony to balcony before fading into the bougainvillea.