Such a pretty girl, so shy. I got you. You would sing in my ear while you used tin foil to secure the wooden beads at the ends of my plaits. The winter after mama left me, I would lay in bed and converse with loneliness. For the first time ever, I heard the screams of silence. You told me not to be startled, to let myself melt into it. You would stroke my cheek with your thumb, secretly hoping it would make me forget the innocence I lost. Hush child, too pretty for all that crying now. Everything works itself out. I got you, you hear me? And even before I became accustomed to the hue of disappointment, you would press my head against your bosom and have me listen to the rhythm of your heart as you hummed along to Bill Withers. I still remember your favorite words, I’m right up the road, I’ll share your load, if you just call me. It still comforts me, but it’s nothing without your percussion. Now the only sign of your presence is a mere ringing in my ear that if I listen to close enough, I can still hear you, What a pretty girl, ain’t that much shy no more. That's good, no need to be shy no more.
