A Haitian woman on the train this evening singing French (Creole?) songs to herself in a soft, mid-range voice, hers the only voice raised in the train, she unconcerned by the social proprieties that demand that we keep quiet if we're not talking to someone. She seemed to sing to please herself.
The songs, perhaps ten or more between State and Forest Hills, had the rhythmic lissomeness, the sprightliness, I associate with French folk song. Were some hymns or carols? Were some songs of the farm? Were some songs of girls and boys joking affectionately with each other? Her repertoire seemed endless and her voice had soft vibrato that made listening to her more and more pleasant. Off the train at the Hills, she walked into the melee at the foot of the escalator, her hand swinging loosely at her side in time with the tune that she sang.
Others may found her disturbing or irritating, and I might have too if her voice had been sour or her behavior erratic, but singing through the songs one knows seems as worthwhile in some sense as reading through the book on one's lap, learning things one doesn't know. I was taken. The songs, the breezy, lilting quality of their melodies, leave me with a light lily-like perfume of a memory.
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