A Song for Tomorrow

Mom’s breath held the citrus plume of an orange blossom as she reached across me and pressed the covers tightly into the sides of the bed. Her hair swayed and danced through the air as a song emerged from her lips. Her last gift to her children each night was a self-composed lullaby that changed each evening. Its sweet tune drifted in the night like a lone vibrant cloud in a perfect sky. She must have held over a million tunes in her head, each one patiently waiting for its turn to pass through her lips.

“Tomorrow I ask the sun to shine for you
The clouds to gently blow
The petals of flowers to slowly unfold
On the day my Mary turns eight years old

Tomorrow I ask love to rain on you
To bathe you in its warm embrace
I invite the stars, the butterflies and galaxies to behold
The day my Mary turns eight years old.”

Mother finished tucking in the sheets and once my hands were pinned firmly to my sides like those of a caterpillar safely harbored inside a cocoon, she planted a soft kiss on my forehead and said, “Goodnight little pea.” I felt her hair like a thousand tentacles waltz across my face and I stole one last drink from her fragrance.

“Goodnight mummy,” I laughed.

“I think you may have our positions reversed. From where I’m standing, you look like a mummy.” She crossed the room and turned off the light. “A princess of Egypt sleeps in my house,” I heard her muse aloud as she walked down the hall. The click of her footstpes on the hardwood floors slowly disappeared

Once Mom was out of earshot, I wiggled out of my bed to work on opening the window.

The window had been tough to open ever since the day God painted my room. Mom complained that God had painted all the windows in the house shut and God said something about it being more energy efficient. God is an environmentalist. Mom then reminded God that creating slugs was an absolute waste of time, space, energy and matter all together and that he didn't seem to be so concerned about conservation then. God shrugged his shoulders, said he didn’t see how the two ideas were even remotely related and finished by muttering something about slugs being the only earthly species that understood the true essence of life.

The window in my room sat within a wide wooden frame with a metal handle in the center at the bottom. I grabbed this ring and heaved upwards with all my strength. The window held its place. As I had seen my mother do before in the living room, I pounded on the top of the window frame with the palm of my hand and then tried again. Once again, there was no movement. I was afraid that the pounding would alert my parents but tried a third time nonetheless. There was a loud crack and the window budged up about six inches. That was more than enough.

The cool air rushed in, blowing across my face and through my hair. My skin prickled up. I backed into bed and fell asleep draped within the comfort of my blankets listening to the wind’s song. It was the second prettiest that I had heard that night.