Suddenly there is something I like to do.  I know that no one will understand because I don’t understand either.

I take a book that’s not poems.  I hold it in one hand and I start singing the text.  The music just comes to me, and it has nothing to do with the text.  It is strangely satisfying.

I do this on the terrace, in the back near the section that joins the terrace to the steps leading down to the kitchen.   I don’t think anyone pays attention to me there.

One day, while I am singing, I feel someone’s gaze.    I turn and see Titi watching me from my cousin Pat’s bathroom window.   She says nothing and turns away.   She is not in the habit of using Pat’s bathroom.  I know someone has finally noticed my strange ritual.

I stop singing texts.

1 Comment

  1. Very similar to what Edith Wharton did as a young child. She would hold a book and walk around making up stories out loud.