Melody and Memory

They say that the most closely related sense to memory is taste. Or was it smell? Honestly, I forget. The two are halfway built into each other, and more often than not one is preceded by the other. And let me tell you, I can tell you that's true.
 
Breakfast ain't complicated you know? Most of the time it's something to do with eggs and some sort of bread. A little bit of greasier than normal meat and milk? Bam, you're gold for nearly every breakfast. Eggs and Toast? Easy. Omelet, hashbrowns and bacon? Same thing. Biscuits and sausage gravy? Pancakes and sausage links? Muffins and milk? Cereal? All the same stuff. That's why I loved making people breakfast.
 
It all smelt so similar, that it felt like home.
 
But right now, I ain't anywhere near that old diner, nor a kitchen of any sort. I don't smell pancakes and syrup, or the crackle of bacon and the sizzle of sausage patties. Nah. It smells like old people and soap here.
 
Cause for me? Right after taste and smell comes sound. And that's what I'm hearing. Singing.
 
The sound of a dozen dozen voices that haven't sounded quite right in years, all off key and out of sync, ignoring the parts to the music and disregarding the slightly out of key piano. A music director with a tie that doesn't quite fight right, and a sparkle in his eye with youth that doesn't fit his old frame. The weird smell of loafers that you know only come out today, and the old hardness of pews that feel like they were made to destroy your shins. The singing at Church.
 
This isn't my Church. Naw, that's some few hundred miles south, probably in the middle of some potluck these days. Sister Louisa bringing out her tamale's which everyone knows doesn't fit, but they just taste too good to say no to. Old Miss Rosaria who always brings the soft bread sandwich platters and green bean casserole. Father Henry who always says he bakes the cookies, but they taste store bought. Mom probably brought something with corn again. Wonder if it was the casserole this time?
 
But, no. This isn't my church. But it has that same... feel. At least the singing. Past that and it falls apart.
 
I'm not in there, of course. Those pews hurt to sit in when you only have two legs, let alone four, with wings and a tail. It'd be a mess. That, and introducing myself. Geeze, I'd have a dozen new names to remember, and half a dozen life stories. Either that, or quiet indignation and the stiff welcome of a visitor. Course, that's what you get coming into someone's family. Either open or closed arms.
 
But... the songs. They tickle my memory. Times from before. Times of peace. When the world was scary and strange and unknown, but it would be alright in the end. Guess that's why I came back. I just... I want that.
 
Memories of gatherings, of singing and holding hands. Talking and praising and gathering together. A community made of one voice, at least for a time. Remembrances and entrustments for good times and bad. Where if your voice falters, if you don't know the notes and you don't remember the lyrics, you can rely on others to help pick it back up, carrying it on. Singing... song is community. Fellowship. Gathering and cooperation.
 
And now...
 
Sounds like they are winding down. Should head back out then, one of the younger kids will want to come to the restroom when preaching starts. Don't want to be that creep just lurking outside.
 
Well, still. It's... nice. Even just for a little while, feeling sorta like I'm part of that.
 
Granted, not the only reason to sing. Sure as hell wouldn't be singing in my tub if there were a bunch of people there. That's just concerning then! I mean, I'd be all... Well...
 
... Aren't I always....
 
Moving on from that thought. Yep. Nope. Nothing there. Nuh uh. Next thought please! What was it, singing? Yeah, solo singing. Er, singing solo. On your own. Singing. Yeah.
 
That's a different sort of singing.
 
Like, I know there are words for it, but that ain't important. The importance is the feel. Singing with a group? That's about making something from all of ya. So it all... gathers and becomes more. So that you all can make something special and unique and grand together. The harmony blending, the sound soothing, and the vocals just hammering home.
 
Singing on your own? That's not what it's about. If you sing a chorus on your own, you just look weird, and sound funky. Singing on your own is all about... well... you.
 
About what's on your mind. In your heart. In your soul, wherever the hell that is. What you feel from your toes to the tips of your wings. What you feel in your chest, in your... fingers, not w-.... uh, the throat, and then it just... bursts into the world. That's a song you sing on your own. And it's... something to see. Er, hear? Both really. Just... someone putting that all out there and just... being.
 
And you can here it too. Not just people, but...
 
I can't sleep most nights, so I've just been spending them at home. Listening to the city, watching the stars from the roof or the window. Rover said I suddenly developed insomnia, but he ain't prying. Something I'm thankful for. But... I dunno. You can sorta hear it. That quiet little whisper of a song in the streets. Not like, the mall kiosk music. That's fine, but that's not what I'm talking about.
 
It's something... smaller? No, bigger, but quieter. Like a background hum. An aura, or vibe, or mood or theme. That sort of... pulse. But it's not just a pulse. It rises, it swells, it crashes and quietens. Some days it's fast, some days it's slow. It's... the city singing back, affirming itself. Some days good, others bad. Some pass too fast, others drag on forever. It's a memory as much as a melody.
 
That heart. That's what a song you sing on your own is. It's wordless at times, but others there are a few words that couldn't fit anywhere else. It's quiet at times, and others it is overpowering and all consuming. The sound of heartache. The sound of silent prayer. The sound of a uncertain, violent, and scared people. And I want...
 
I want to sing it. To write it. To pluck the stars from the sky and wring them dry, to write the voice so often quieted in the heavens with the golden light of a thousand suns. To tear free the heart of man so quiet and so dark and etch its words with glowing vibrancy. To make the world look back at it's creation and be unable to turn away. To see a song made of a mockery of life. From the silent voice of the thousands that were sequestered and broken in this new world. From the millions living in a world without hope. From the hardened hearts and stoic faces of those who dare to thrive in this world.
 
I want them to face the music.