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