a pair of denims, fresh from laundry, made dry and crackling sounds as i put on it last night. friends called up earlier for a spur of the moment dinner date. then finishing dressing up, i just heard myself singing. faintly. tentatively. some execrable 80's pop ditty.
i realized it has been that long since i stopped singing. i used to sing all the time. i mean, just sing. while bathing. while scrubbing the sink. while waiting for a mere phone call.
growing up, i couldn't wait for sunday afternoons. a talent show bristling with mostly belters capped my week. aping the winner, i'd croon myself to sleep. my mother, hollering from her room, would shush me. "you just don't have the timbre."
i used to think mother meant i didn't have the hutzpah. timber, was to me, something hard. harder than balls.
i don't really remember when i gave up singing. it's like asking, perhaps, a ghost when he first started haunting.
our loud party finished dinner and innumerable one-for-the-road toasts early morning. one grows old and tone deaf at the same time, perhaps. old and songless. like a street corner at two in the morning. a haunting absence of color.
