The first time I sang
for anyone, it was my sister.
I was six years old,
Our mother had fallen asleep
Early. But my sister
Wouldn’t sleep. She cried in her crib,
My small hands on the railing,
Watching. Warm.
With the lamp burning low,
My mother stirred but nothing more.
The only sound was my sister,
I held my breath without realizing,
Sliding the railing down and
Sitting beside her, I smiled.
I touched her head, she was tiny,
Even compared to me.
A hand under her neck and
A hand under her back, I lifted
Her into my arms and
Onto my lap. Her cries slowed,
But her eyes were wide. Bright.
Open and expecting things from me.
I tried whispering her to sleep,
I could hear her breathe with me,
Both of us an extension
Of our mother, who still slept.
I hummed, stroking the small hairs
That had began to grow on her head.
She smiled at me, poking
My neck as if she knew where
The sound was coming from.
I reached for her soother and began
A lullaby. One that my mother has
Sung since she was as small as me.
The soother was in between my
Sister’s gums, I looked down and
She met my eyes. They drifted
Closed, as the lullaby finished.
A bird called outside,
Like he was continuing my song,
Using it for his own nest.
Like he knew what I was singing
About.

I moved her, gently.
Back onto her blankets, her hands
On the soother and in my shirt.
I slipped away. My mother was awake
By then, sitting up like she’d been there
A while. She took my hand in hers.
I remember how small I still was.
Her smile was so bright in the twilight
Of the room. She wants me to sing more.
And I do.