The singing coming from the monitor in the bedroom down the hall was of three sisters. The fourth sibling – with a cold, white and drawn face – lay dying.
The trio sang softly and gently. In a nearby room the brothers-in-laws sat in reverent silence, listening to the soothing but faltering voices.
It was raining outside. Not the kind that comes down hard or sideways or in driving sheets; no, it was a misty, soft falling of precipitation that settled gently on and wreathed an aging tulip in a wooden box outside the bedroom window.
The plant’s petals had once peaked and stretched for the sky, bringing beauty and contentedness when it opened its heart. But time passes, and now the petals had softened and weakened and had begun to curl in on themselves.
Yet even as the life of the tulip neared its end, the heart of the blossom remained unaffected, clear and sharp, it’s color iridescent despite the surrounding darkness.
Though their voices trembled, the sisters’ beautifully sung words were a poignant and marvelous message of a final farewell, of sadness harmonized with hope that they would meet again and sing all four together again.
The views expressed in this article are the writer’s own.
