Sing to Me
For all my failures, I will never mistake the beauty of the blossoms.
“Samuel. . . we need to leave soon.”
My mother is nearly as quiet as the trees. But they speak more than she ever did. They float around, pull against gravity, and let go once more. They do not hesitate. The pale reds against the dour sky and stars. They told me, no one loved them as I did.
The blossoms are more than they say they are. One might look at the sky, the stars in awe. But the stars will not forgive you. Not like the blossoms do. I sit — I listen — and in return they forgive me. So, I do not need my mother to pray over me, that I might get better. Her pity makes my body shrivel, and I would wish to be with the cherry blossoms again. To feel the grass brush against my palm. Like bristles of a paintbrush. And they will paint me with brilliant hues of freedom and sing to me.
I can’t wait to feel the air.
I can’t wait to defy gravity, like the petals.
I can’t wait to die.
“Samuel, please, honey. Let’s go,” my mother says. Her voice is like the dirt. I frown to myself. I cannot move.
“Sam.” I can hear her feet; I can hear the dirt and the blossoms and the grass speak to me. They are shaking. So, I shake too. “Get up already, Sam. . . you’re too old for this.”
The stars scream and blister with front-faced ignorance.
I struggle helplessly as she wraps her arms around me.
Calm. Quiet. Calm. Quiet.
I am like the cherry blossoms.
“Bless you for cooperating with me.” She sighs wearily, body sagging.
“I will die.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say dreadful things like that anymore. . .”
“You will love me,” I smile; turning, looking back as I’m hauled from the grassy park with the speaking trees. My mother does not look at me, this I know in my heart, where I can still hear the faint whisperings of those rose petals. “I will be free.“