Real, though far off

I had the casa to myself this morning. My mama and papa had long since left for work, and my four brothers and sisters all had class. So I casually toasted some bread and heated some water for tea, paced sleepily around the small kitchen, checked the refrigerator door in hopes of finding anything other than whole milk and then remembered that the milk here doesn't go in the frigde, delighted in my three different and equally delicious marmalade options, hummed a tune. Then I stopped humming, for fear of waking someone up or messing up someone's train of thought. And then I remembered that I was the only one home. So I started humming again. And then I did something I haven't done in a really long time.

I starting singing.

Really loud.

And I kept singing, surprised at the sound of my own voice, at the melody cutting through the morning silence, at the English weaving around my morning te ceylan and pan and marmalada. Surprised I remembered how. I sang whatever I thought of as I thought of it, jumping from song to song, soprano to alto, gospel to basilica to Santiago kitchen.

Music is inescapable here. You can't even get on a city bus without a guitarist or djembe-clad hip-hop duo or Peruvian flautist hopping on after you to play for riders' pocket change. And I adore the seemingly endless soundtrack that my life here seems to enjoy. It makes it easy when I pretend I'm in a movie scene. But I miss singing along. The last time I heard myself sing, I was finishing four weeks of Vision, four weeks of endless song, and my screechy, failing voice was nonetheless filled with joy. For the past five weeks, I've been content in this lingering, inevitable homesickness for all the million sources of music in my life. But I guess I never realized how much I missed it all until this morning. My life was music. My life is music. And not in the "Baseball is life: the rest is just details" t-shirt way. My life flowed on in endless song. And for the past five weeks, the song's been in the morning, breakfast-preparing humming, or as I quietly sing "Arise, My Love" to the beat of my steps as I walk home every night, or when mass parts are the repeat kind, or when my little brother Cristobal brings home a kids song to memorize for English class. But it's not enough. I miss it. I miss singing. Loud. Unreserved. Praying twice. I miss it.

There are no grand revelations to be had here. I just miss singing. That's all.