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The singer

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The singer arrived at twilight, or in the gloaming, he smiled to us. It’s such a beautiful word, he said, and you all look so pretty in the light.

He began to sing his sweet songs and his mouth twisted funny and he rocked forward and I watched the hole at the knee of his jeans and his hair when it fell on his face.

What’s that bit here called, I try to remember, that dip in your throat? The suprasternal notch. I recall it from the book. And I remember you mouthing the words and the lines as though to ingest them somehow and make them more part of you. I watched his suprasternal notch. Watched his throat as he lifted the words up from his chest and sang them out onto all of us.

I didn’t realise I was crying until my face was wet with tears and you passed me a handkerchief. I have one of your’s at home, a blue check, which I used to keep on my pillow but don’t anymore because I’m just getting on, like I said.

He sang about a lifeline cut and I think that’s what happened. In the space between his words and where I stood and where you stood in that oranging room I understood it was gone, like an umbilicle cord that I used to rely on.  I spun and spun turning my body and hoisting my shape through the air to try to face you with my arms outstretched.

Alone I saw I had landed better than I thought I could. We all learn to breathe by ourselves; to find our edge and to begin our purpose. And I was watching this man. He sang right into me.

The gloaming closed in; still we were pretty in the dark.


Written by elikafm

May 5, 2010 at 5:09 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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