Why the blue birds fly

Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly

She was the epitome of beauty. Sharp cheekbones, glowing skin, a pearly smile. There was nothing she did not possess. Wide and glassy doe eyes set under her dark brows that were so easy to get lost in. Her dark hair hung in a heavy curtain of ringlets down her back, swaying back and forth with each fluid step. She had the brightest smile; straight white teeth, a dimple in her left cheek, surrounded by the softest rose-petal lips. Her beauty was mesmerizing and noticeable to all, and she was well aware of it. But the essence of her charm was not her hair or her lips. It was not in her slender figure and dainty hands. Nor was it in her disarming smile and thick, beautiful hair. It was in her melodious and silky voice coupled with her captivating piano-playing.

Birds fly over the rainbow

When she sang, it was as if the entire world would stop and hold its breath in awe of the belle’s voice. Smooth and sweet as honey, clear as a crystal. She had everyone enchanted by her soothing and harmonious chords as her fingers swiftly danced over the glossy piano keys. Her music was her most cherished and prized possession; the crux of her beauty.

Why then, oh why can’t I?

Of course, as the years go by the beauty fades with it. She knew that physical beauty at least was momentary. After giving birth to her little girl, and bordering on the cusp of middle age, she was alright with it. Her hair had lost its smooth silkiness and had streaks of silver. Her eyes were still bright and full of her fire, but her skin was no longer marbled and glowy. She was alright with that. She was rounder, with fuller hips and bigger thighs. The weight was too slow coming off, but she was alright with that. She still had her melodious music; fresh and untainted by her passage through life. It was her core, and kept the fire burning inside of her lit with her passion.

Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly

Birds fly over the rainbow

Why then, oh why can’t I?

Her daughter grew listening to her mother’s voice and soft piano tunes soothe her, lull her to sleep. Her favorite song lulled her daughter to sleep on restless nights, calmed her after nightmares, and lifted her spirits when she felt down. As she grew older, her daughter blossomed in front of her and began noticing the toll old age was taking on her mother. Playing the piano was becoming more difficult; her fingers no longer glided effortlessly over the keys without error. First it started with slight aches and stiffness, causing her fingers to stick to some keys and misplay the simple tune. But it only worsened, until one day her mother couldn’t move her fingers without shooting pain electrocuting each joint. That’s when she found out: severe rheumatoid arthritis.

The diagnosis slowly smothered the fire in her mother’s eyes. There was a lump in her throat that would not go away, and her voice came out strained and different. Her muscles would spasm and her fingers would stiffen and swell, pain radiating throughout her frame. Yet the physical pain was incomparable to the grief she harboured for her music. Her mother’s eyes dimmed and she stopped trying to fuel her passion. The piano fallboard remained down, gathering dust through neglect. It was an unsaid rule: no more was the piano played or songs sung in the house.

Everything became a battle - some days she would win and a small smile would grace her lips, but other days when she found it too difficult to even get out of bed, her eyes would empty and she’d quieten. The silence was unbearable for her daughter. The anger was like a large pill lodged in her throat, on days when her mother would snap at her and refuse her help. She was losing sense of herself, and that was worse than anything the arthritis could do. She couldn’t move on her own terms. Her fingers were not her own to control anymore, her vocal chords weren’t hers to strum on her own accord.

One day when the pain was too much, her mother remained in bed for hours with her blank eyes. She refused to eat and slid in and out of consciousness, dreaming of a time when her hands worked right and her voice wasn’t hoarse.

“When I was young,” she whispered to her daughter. “I loved to sing, and no one could take that from me.”

“I know, Ma.” She brushed the hair off her mother’s forehead and caressed her face, watching as her eyes glossed over in reminiscence.

“It was a part of me,” she sighed. “And I took it away from myself.”

She was wrong. The music she sang, the piano tunes her daughter grew on - it was her. Her mother was the melody she never grew tired of singing along to. She was the constant rhythm beating inside of her, thudding underneath her ribs. She was in the words of her favorite lullaby, the smooth keys of the piano. She was in the calm drumming of raindrops and the comfort of a warm cup of cocoa. She was the anchor that pulled her out of the deepest sinkholes, the rock that grounded her. The angel that gave hope and guidance, love and compassion to a child in times when the darkness became overwhelming. Her mother had lost today’s battle but she would not let her lose the war. Brittle bones and rusty chords would not wither away her spirit. No, she wouldn’t let it.

The next morning she saw it in her eyes. The silent resignation, and she knew. Her mother was losing more and more of herself, pieces of her chipping away day by day. So she coaxed her mother out of her bed and, wrapping her arms around her, led her out to the dark piano bench. She pulled away the fallboard, and guided her mother’s fingers to the keys. She looked in eyes and saw a spark.

“Sing with me, Ma.”

If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow

Why, oh why can’t I?