Her mother heard her. Her mother heard her sing but she didn't understand her song. Pauline sang from the shower. Her voice was loud. Her mother heard her song, and she paused. As she listened her hand drifted over her heart. She could feel it pulsate and glow. A tear welled below her eyelid. Golden memories struck by the purity of her daughter’s song. She thought it was beautiful. And it was.
But its story wasn't.
The shower was a sanctuary. Within its walls Polly thought they couldn't hear her. She sang under the water to hide herself. She sang while the water wiped away the dirt of the day. The literal and metaphorical. Rinsing away whatever new filth had been slung. The words they hurled at her. The words they kept to themselves.
Her cheeks burned red, and she turned up the heat until it scalded her flesh. Hot enough to excuse her flush. So she could pretend her colouring had come from the heat of the water, and not the humiliation she felt. She pretended to herself to hide the embarrassment of her own feelings from herself. She hid from her shame.
And then she sang.
And the notes were beautiful.
The burning process wasn't something that she did to encourage herself, or find the notes. She did not sing voluntarily. The songs burst out. It was from some sort of cosmic alchemy. The sound needed to come out. A universal law that from such sorrow, such hurt and ache, required something beautiful. A boon of balance. And the consequence was divine.
Would she only open her eyes, Pauline would see the water rise and shiver a-tuned to her timber as she'd sud and sing. A promise kept, a spell cast, she'd serenade the water and the miracle would begin. The droplets would cleanse her wounds, rinse the salt from the corner of her eyes as it blanketed and misted. And in its fogging steam she forgot. Her muscles forgot, her scalp forgot. As she rinsed and washed her skin sang. And her soul followed. Until all harmonised her heart. The harmony healing the harm.
Polly sang, and sang. She sang out her pain and it sounded like love. The song was for herself, and she needed every note. But her mother heard. While she knew the notes, she didn't know the cores. Despite not knowing the darkness, and hurt Pauline suffered she knew more than her daughter did. For she recognized the sound. That sound was her daughter. That sound was from the source.
And when Polly dared to sing, she sang but one song.
And that song was hope.
They say being a mother is the toughest job of all. We think that it's because of what nightmares we all are. With our messes and mischief. But it's carrying the burdens. The horrible burden of knowing the pains of life, and being forced to watch us wander through them ourselves. Even Mothers who've lived the most blessed of lives must suffer through childbirth. Through ungodly pain. To the threshold, opening to the beyond. And they know that we will face feelings that mirror it ourselves in our lifetime. And they do their best to shield us from it. They do their best to teach us to avoid the pains of this world, knowing full well that the most profound moments of their lives were intertwined with the most painful. And when they can't protect us from each scrap or hurt, they remind us of the beauty surrounding us, with a smile, a soft word, and gentle kiss. They remind us that even when there's pain, that deep, deep in the darkness, there is always a source of love. Darkness is not the absence of light, rather the absorption of it. Every single person has a mum. But not everyone has had a mother, those of us who've had are fortunate beyond words. i'll forever be grateful for mine.
Happy Mother's Day.
-Mr. Write