beautiful voice

A beutifull voice

When I was little My Mom would sing to me. Not of anything special, she would just sing.

When she was standing at the kitchen counter making lunch, she would sing about all the continents she was putting on her sandwich.

When she was in the backyard pulling weeds in the garden she would sing to herself. Like her own personal narrator of a story she never finished writing.

She would sing to me, just a small hum while sitting at the edge of my bed rubbing my arm and helping me fall asleep after a nightmare.

She would sing about my dad and his adventures. How he survived three days on a mountain after getting bitten by a snake, or how he punched a shark in the face after it bit his leg off.

I always enjoyed her stories about my dad, it made me feel like I had known him my whole life and that he was always there to influence me and raise me with my mom by his side. But he wasn't there and we were never a complete family.

So imagine my surprise, my happiness, when I saw the man standing in my Living room with the same short brown hair and large dimples as the photos my mom had shown me. You could also imagine my surprise when I saw my mom strewn across the broken glass table covered in blood and a baseball bat in his left hand dripping with the same substance.

Imagine my shame at having looked up to him all my life, my worry at the thought of my mom being dead, my sickness as the ripped flesh exposed a broken bone in her arm and my fear as those joyful dimples that I've always seen in photographs smiled at me with the most wicked grin humanly possible and my instincts fighting against me, frozen in fear, as he walked towards me and swung the bat back.

My regret as it came down by my eye on the right side of my face.

My wonder as I thought of what my mom would sing to me at this moment.

Hhmmmm hmm hmmm.