Cafe Hitch-hike

2023-10-29

The dreams of singing

I dreamed I was a kid playing patty-cake with my younger siblings when they were toddlers. I sang songs to them I learned from Sunday school and music class. The kids eagerly listened and clapped, and the repeated the last lines of some of the songs. (This wasn’t completely a dream, I really did that for them on occasion).

Then, a karaoke machine was set up in the living room. I wanted to sing, but something weird clicked in me. They sang rock, I sang torch songs. They checked their phone for texts and looked online while I sang. I clapped and swayed while they sang, and tried to keep their spirit up when they struggled at high notes through their favorite songs. They sang songs by their favorite bands. I sang songs that made me feel something.

I don’t know why, but I felt like they didn’t like my singing voice or my songs. The music didn’t mesh, we didn’t sing much that was compatible. At some point, we lost our enthusiasm for singing and the music.

I took the mic one more time but didn’t want so sing. I put on a song I never sang but liked, and “sampled” it. I didn’t commit to singing the whole song and gave the excuse that I was “just reading through it.”. I weakly sang the song without the mic while the music played. Although I liked the refrain and got into the song for its last time, I was glad it was over.

I didn’t want to sing anymore. Something wasn’t clicking. I usually liked karaoke. We weren’t on American Idol, it was just for fun in the living room. It was about the joy of singing, touching a song that brought joy or made me feel a certain way. It wasn’t perfect, it was just something.

A memory flickered of when I gently sang a song to someone else in the past, something that actually happened. They liked my voice and asked for another song, and later asked me to sing at a gathering.

We then were in a hospital where he was in a stretcher and in recovery with the IVs and monitors. I softly sang the same first song to him, holding his hand and stroking his hair during breaks in the lyrics. While I sang, I felt love for him, and hoped for his comfort and recovery. I only wanted him to heal and that I was there for him.

His eyes were closed and he smiled, sinking himself deeper into this pillow and bed. He squeezed my hand before sinking into rest. The song was finished. He peacefully slept as the monitors took over with their own sound and rhythm. Something in me also relaxed and I felt less worry.

The memory of a dream then came to me. I was on the stage again, singing a beautiful song with Huck while he played guitar, and to a packed house of eager attendees. The dream cut into the middle of the song. I looked at Huck, I looked at the audience, and the interaction added a gentle yet perky and happy energy in me. My voice hit keys it usually did not, with effort but a nice result. I dressed in a plain floral dress, but that didn’t matter. We all enjoyed the ride of the voice, melody, and interaction.

The song ended on cue. The audience clapped, and he leaned over where we had a sweet, warm kiss. It was a pleasure to be on the stage and to be with him. I felt happy, we all seemed to in that moment.

The dream ended when I sang to myself in the kitchen while I cooked a meal. I was alone, but I happily sang along to whatever kicked on. I carried on with the cooking until the food was finished.

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