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.