Sing

 

Dear Kate,

So you survived the pandemic, and I did too.  We didn't die.  "Yet so as through fire."  At the end of the tunnel we are now.  You got a light?

Back to normal: baggage chaos.  This long weekend many will lay on their shoulders a fresh old burden, a yoke laid idle for over two years, with a vengeance.  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

We want to live, that's what it is.  But what is it exactly, we don't quite know.  Before figuring it out the least we could do is to stay undead.  Some hide in their corners until it is safe to come out; others run to corners of the world to keep hiding.  Each baggage looks distinctly similar.

Elvis fascinates me.  A man who is so hungry to live can't stay undead for long.  In our dreams he keeps going on and on, crowd surfing on our imagination.

"When things are too dangerous to say, sing." - did a priest really say this to Elvis?

I sing all the time, I suspect even in my dreams.  I speak a lot: I need to.  "It's my job."  Speaking mostly unnecessarily.  Saying necessary things to keep the situation in hand undead.  Carrying baggage with care.  Holding babies by holding my tongue.  When things are unspeakable, I sing.  You can't kill me yet if I can still sing.

Of course that makes me a sentimental man.  I cry a lot when I sing.  I take the words seriously.  Don't trust a person who sings with a straight face.  Elvis might have been a clown but he never cheated me with a song.  People don't know me for my singing voice, only because I don't sing in front of them.  I give them the straight face to keep my tears unheard.  I am always honest about my lies.

The sun just set, right on my back with the settling of my words.  It's enough for a day, even if the heart says no.

Yours, Alex