She possessed a haunting, lilting voice. Hard to age by ear or eye, I watched as she took centre stage in every aspect of its meaning. The other singers became as statues, their faces unobserved, voices unnecessary, the lavish set as nothing other than a backdrop to her. For me, it was the diva’s first and last performance.
Not long after her magical rendition as Cho-Cho-San in Madame Butterfly, the diva who shall remain nameless, for to name her is to undermine her mystique, developed that most awful of human conditions referred to by its initial alone to which there was no cure; it stole her voice and lessened our souls.
I thought how cruel it was for that earthbound angel, for her audiences, for her legacy and worst for the world, to have lost so much whilst still in her prime. I even told a friend of my feelings. She smiled in her own demure way and said, “The world has lost nothing just grown less vivid.”
I spent many years thinking my friend wrong, harsh even, but now as I pass into eternity, the diva’s voice whisking me away on lyrical currents, I suspect it was destiny. She has eased the burden on my departing soul as she did the day she stole it.