The voice is young, sweet, innocent and yet, broken in a way only love’s betrayal can scar.

She accompanies herself on a guitar, languidly strumming. Not living, not dead. In the between. In the neverland of a broken heart. The vocalist drags out the last words of each line, as if groping toward a precipice. It may be in Spanish but it feels very French.

The singing is coming from an upper patio of the building next door.

“What a beautiful song,” I remark to Rose. “It doesn’t sound like a recording.”

“No. It sounds like someone is rehearsing,” she says.

“How nice,” we both think. 

And we listen for a while, expecting another tune. Or a refinement of this one.

And we listen.

“Well, it’s definitely a recording,” says Rose, eventually. “But it is beautiful.”

“It’s on a loop,” I add. “I wonder if anyone over there knows that.”

Two hours later, the song is not sounding so beautiful. And if there is anyone in that mortuary of a condo complex, they aren’t hearing it.

Around 5 p.m. we go out for the evening. Lady Zen is performing a fabulous tribute show to Annie Lennox at Paprika. Live and in-person. We are mesmerized by her power and passion. I don’t think about the looping song for even a moment.

The song is still playing when we return, only now she is sounding like a young and very heartbroken Annie Lennox. Singing in French. Or Spanish.

We have dinner and watch a show on TV (“Only Murders in the Building” Season 3). Rose goes upstairs to read and prepare for bed. I wash the dishes.

She is still singing. Same song. Sounding less like Annie Lennox.

I climb to the rooftop patio, hoping to record the song on my iPhone. I mostly get the sounds of traffic from the Ancha and Libramente. Nothing in French. Or Spanish. Or sounding like Annie Lennox.

Rose comes into the bedroom where I am typing. She is practicing Duolingo and the overhead fan is filling the room with white noise.

“Do you think she is singing in French or Spanish?” I ask, as if there is a real person up there playing the same song over and over and over.

“I really don’t know,” she replies. “It is so soft and I really can’t hear it now.”

She’s right. I can’t either.

I go to the door to listen. Cars. Barking dogs. The distant slam of a door. Voices on the street.

But no song.

The lights are out on the upper patio. Somebody finally came home.

I was ready to let the song haunt me all night.

It was that beautiful. 

It was that sad.

And now it is already leaving my memory and I really don’t want it to go.

I don’t want to be that guy who spends his whole day posting search cues into YouTube like “female singer, Spanish, French, guitar, sad songs.” Because that leads to an endlessly looping beat track filled with Selena Gomez, Rihanna, Miley Cyrus, Ariana Grande …

She is better than that, not the least because she is a singer-songwriter, playing her own guitar, and living out her broken life one album cut at a time. At least, this is what I now tell myself.

Whoever she is, whatever inspired the song – well – I hope someday that she finds true love and writes a song about that, too.

_____________________________________________________________________

Put more magiIf you enjoyed this post, consider subscribing and passing on e (in the red circle). Feel free to share this post!