My Father Singing

Most evenings, my father sang in his chair in the living room, even though he often didn’t know the words to the songs he was singing. He’d hum the melody or sing nonsense syllables to replace the words. He thought his voice could chase away the spirits that haunted him, that caused his severe headaches and dark moods, but he couldn’t sing long enough or beautifully enough. He didn’t think he was Perry Como singing how a wheel goes round until it hits the ground; nor did he imagine himself Frank Sinatra, singing intimately about love and regret. He imagined himself a crooner like Dean Martin, the booze fresh on his breath and in his song. I didn’t think he was singing at all, but simply talking in a sweeter softer voice, not shouting or swearing, but trying to say something nice for a change.