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Special. Because she needn't sing a note. Her specialty being unneeded antic gesture—the at times right-in-rhythm wave and flap of her hands, the at other times out-of-sync swoop and pump of her arms, those tilts, those bobs of her head. Pulses of joy. Her constant ecstatic motion. A sung note from her, now and again? Perhaps. No one can tell. One wild smile after another, she holds her place on the riser's third tier. In the all-girl Fernwood Middle School Choir she's a member in good standing. Who would say she doesn't belong? Not the twenty-two other girls who specialize in keeping their eyes straight ahead on their director, on her gesturing arms. They lip-read their leader's mouth as she swiftly forms a lyric's words. She models the script her girls strictly follow. Their part is to stay aligned with the song, regardless of outbursts from the girl who attends no regular classes, the one needful of special care. Between two numbers, the girl shouts out a bit of needling impatience, anxious to get to the next number. The director laughs, quips aloud, "She's said what's on all our minds!" Stretching her arms toward her group, she coaxes them into the first notes of "I See the Light," while that girl's upper body jolts into charades of the lyric. On cue from their leader, the twenty-two have given the twenty-third their gift. They make room for the odd one by not giving way to her distractions— the only possible way this Special Needs girl could, with their choir, stand and sing. —Paulann Petersen
One Small Sun, Salmon Poetry, 2019
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