In the calming breeze of midday, I used to wonder,
Why do the birds sing their song?
As a small girl of seven, their distant melodies made my mind wander.
Their presence drowned out the noise of the world.
As I grew I memorized their songs.
Whenever I was frightened I would hum it softly to myself.
I’d made fast friends with them before long,
And we would wake up and harmonize together.
Mama and I would go down to the flowering meadow, every day if we could.
The soft clearing was filled with small, beautiful tulips with hues of every color I could imagine.
All at once, dozens of small nightingales gathered in the trees and welcomed the new day.
Mama said I could grow up to be one of them, and I knew I would.
But at what cost?
The first day I strained to hear them was the day mama died.
I longed to see the small bodied birds tapping lightly against my weathered window pane.
I longed to see my mother, returning on the garden path from a day of hard work.
I even longed for the noise of the world to come back again.
The last time their songs entered my open window, was the day she was laid to rest.
I never heard them again.