I Can't Sing

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Until last week, I was able to sing.

I don’t sing in public. I don’t even sing in the bathroom. Sometimes I sing to annoy people closest to me; they would be the first to vouch that I can’t sing.

But I would normally sing along to my favourite tunes when I’m driving alone. Sometimes its rock music, sometimes ballad and sometimes blues. No hip-hop, please. I’d drum my fingers on the wheel, tap my feet to the beat, whistle or hum the tune, and sing a verse or two, sometimes at the top of my lungs. After all, it’s not like anyone can hear me above the din of traffic on the road.

I was driving along last week, as usual with my favourite music in the air. And suddenly it struck me that I wasn’t singing. My lips were sealed shut. I wasn’t even humming, let alone whistling. My fingers remained still. My feet firmly planted on the floor. Even my toes wouldn’t wiggle. The silence, which I only then realised had been present for days, was deafening. It’s almost as if whatever music I had in me had been sucked out by recent events.

A whole gamut of emotions had run through me in the past weeks. At one time, the pain felt almost physical. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an unseen hand inside my chest, making it hard to breathe. My hands shook and my feet numb. My stomach churned and threatened to disgorge what little food I managed to swallow. These went on for days.

The invisible hand left as suddenly as it came with the turn of events, leaving me with a hollow feeling. At that point I felt so empty that I couldn’t even cry for my loss. For a moment I thought that my heart had been ripped away by that hand.

A friend later said all the right things and made me cry. The medicine was bitter but the tears rescued me. My mourning began. I accepted that I must grieve for my loss before I can move forward.

Was it Mark Twain who said,
“Sing like no one's listening
Love like you've never been hurt
Dance like nobody's watching
And live like its heaven on earth”.

I promised myself to take no more than one month. In this one month, I will practice my self-prescribed therapy; I will talk, listen, read and write. I will learn to understand what has happened. I will learn to accept that there are things senseless and beyond comprehension. I will even allow myself to cry again.

I will learn that I have come out richer in experience from my relationship with this jewel of a man.

When the month is over, I will sing again. That’s a promise.
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