gold rush

introduction.

CECELIA

I think you can tell a lot about an artist by the first real song they wrote. Real can mean anything, but I'm talking about the first legitimate song. The first song that isn't a jumble of incoherent thoughts everyone jotted down at five-years-old. The first song that was written with a single emotion or story in mind. The song that started it all.

I was fifteen when I wrote my first real song. It was called Marjorie, and it was written with a heart full of grief and a head swarming with sadness. It was pretty heavy for a fifteen-year-old, if I must say.

I started scratching down lyrics when I was nine. Nothing earth-shattering incredible. Just small anecdotes from when I was old enough to understand what all the shouting in my house was about. My parents fought constantly when I was growing up. I never understood why, until one day after coming home from school and hearing my father shout at my mother about me.

I can still hear his voice booming in my head. "ONE, Marjorie! We agreed on ONE kid! I'm sorry I can't make time to go to Cecelia's piano recital, but I'm not changing my plans to cater to the accident you refused to get rid of!"

After that day, I paid closer attention to their constant fights. It was always about me, never anything else. Later that night, I swore to myself that I would try to be the best daughter anyone could possibly have. I wanted to prove to him that having me wasn't a mistake. And, God, it was nearly impossible.

He got angry with me over the smallest things. If I set a bowl to dry facing up instead of down, I'd be sentenced to re-wash ALL the dishes in the drying rack. If I asked to stay over at my best friend, Sophia's house, it was an immediate scolding for not wanting to spend time with my family. If I accidentally left a light on in the kitchen before going to bed, I was in store for a ten minute lecture about how irresponsible I was. God-forbid my bus ran late after school, that was a nightmare all on it's own. And, of course, my brother got it off easy. Everything Chris did was praised.

 I couldn't do anything right in my fathers eyes, no matter how hard I tried. But at least I had my mom in my corner.

She stood up for me in every argument, and showed me the compassion my father lacked. She was there with me through every up and down of life, constantly reassuring that her love for my brother and I was unconditional. There would be nights where I would spiral into an uncontrollable pit of sadness, and she would always be there, ready to listen to my incessant rambling with arms wide open. She was my rock.

My mom got cancer when I was thirteen. For the next two years, she was in and out of hospitals, constantly trying different rounds of chemo while the doctors found new tumors. But even through her biggest trials, she stayed my happy momma.

One day, when I was fifteen, I was sitting with her in the grey hospital room, painting her nails the same shade of ruby as my own. My dad had taken my brother to soccer practice, leaving my mom and I alone. I cherished moments like this. Moments where I didn't feel like I needed to be perfect, I could just exist peacefully. I felt her loving stare burning into me while my eyes were fixated on her delicate fingers. I looked at her and the second our eyes met, she sent me a weak smile and pushed a strand of hair behind my ear.

"I love you so much, Cece." She spoke softly, and placed a cold hand on my cheek.

"I love you too, momma." I replied, kissing her wrist. We stayed still for a minute, both content with the quiet atmosphere surrounding us.

"I'm so proud of you, darling." She stated. I closed my eyes as I felt her soft thumb glide over my cheekbone. "Can you grab that for me, please?" I opened my eyes to see her pointing at the small locket that hung from her I.V. stand.