Humming Without Knowing

The doctor said it almost offhandedly —

borderline, two years ago, resolved

on its own — and I said, okay,

and she moved to the next thing

on the screen.

I drove home.

Stopped at the light on Clement.

Hands on the wheel.

And I realized I was humming.

Something. I don't even know what —

a commercial jingle, a half-remembered song

from a car ride I can't place,

just a sound going in and out of my chest.

The light went green.

I kept humming.

There's a version of me

that didn't get to sit at that light.

That didn't know about that version either.

I drove home.

Made a sandwich.

The hum went on a little longer

and then it stopped

the way things stop

when they don't know they're stopping.