No Word Today

In my dream, a family of familiar faces welcomed me and Adrienne into their vacation home and urged us to watch their children perform a well-rehearsed song on the patio. They each had their own instruments, their own lines, their own tunes. They played happily and patiently; we enjoyed the show. And when they finished, the slightly overweight parents clapped proudly, the kids smiled briefly and then left the makeshift stage intent on dinner. The father watched his children scatter with a contentment assigned only to parents and then turned to me, and with genuine honesty, asked me to sing a song. He asked me this as though people are asked to sing songs all the time, in the same way a stranger at a bus stop might ask for directions.

I, however, was startled and taken aback. I'd been watching something without pretense and suddenly, unexpectedly flung backward into a state of self-consciousness. Although by no means an offensive question, its asking sent my brain spinning. Not a single string of phrases emerged, song or otherwise, and as stood thinking my body seemed to sink. I wanted to sing--desperately--and I wanted to sing something I knew and loved and wanted to hear. The silence strengthened as I tried to think of a song I knew to sing. Beats passed and pressure mounted--the father questioned me with his eyes, saying, I think, "Is there something wrong? Just sing, Zachary," and my mouth barely moved and no song came out. No singing.

That's me, I assume, in metaphor. Standing, lit, on a makeshift stage, wanting to sing but with no song. Stuck, gripped by the wanting. Elective suffocation.