Fortingall Avenue

  An old woman wrapped in an orange flowery shawl sang in soprano. Songs without lyrics. A very loud humming. I remember when I was a kid I wanted to become a siren. Legend has it that a siren drowns the ship, but I do not want that. I just want to sing while watching the ships safely dock. Or being part of a gipsy band  —wandering all over the bushes and breezes, singing and dancing. Then suddenly, a woman in a tartan shirt casually sat on the concrete across from the singing lady.  She took something out of her bag. Thought it was a drawing pen, it was a rolling paper. She breathed in and out the smoke while listening to the lady. What a bizarre scene, I told myself. But then I realised, in this bizarreness, there was me sitting on a bench a few metres away from the singing lady—absorbed in her voice while maintaining a flat face that people often mistake as rude.  Me too, a weird one, as usual. In a crowd, alone, joining an entourage that made a weird painting. Wh...