There is a girl who walks to the woods to sing alone. Even though, on her way, she usually stops to watch the bear cubs play and the loggers cook their evening meal, she is able to pass by unnoticed. She carefully finds her way to “her” spot, a stone where she sits in the cool night air until her sweet voice can dance upon the wind long after the other creatures have bedded down for the night.

Though once upon a time, she had wished to share her voice with someone special, she had long ago decided it would not be so. Though she sang throughout her childhood with sweet abandon, her parents had not heard her. Neither her siblings nor her classmates had heard her. And while many men had offered to kiss her lips, none had ever listened when she used those lips to sing. In later years, her children came the closest to hearing her. When they were young, they started nearly every journey to dreamland on the wings of their mother’s voice. But as they grew, even they became mostly deaf to her melodies. In her midlife, she had become content to share her voice with the wind alone, and the wind had become her dearest friend.

One day on her well-worn journey to the woods, she made it past the bears and the loggers once again and waited for the world to go to sleep. As she sat upon her favorite stone, she waited patiently for the wind to cue her with its gentle sigh. As the wind tenderly swept her hair from her face, her lips parted to release the glorious melody waiting there. She sang, lilting notes that bubbled up from her deepest places – some sad, some full of marvel, and some dancing with joy. She closed her eyes and she sang.

When the song’s last note finally drifted away, unaware of time or proximity, the woman opened her eyes. Standing before her was a man. In his eyes were tears and on his face was an expression that spoke more than any words the woman had ever heard. As she looked at him, an amazing realization slowly stole over her. He had heard her. He had heard her.

The singer was motionless, watching as the man took two steps toward her on the stone. Without taking his eyes from her face, he laid a bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers at her feet. Then he slowly backed away. He stopped briefly in his retreat, smiled tenderly through his tears, turned, and walked away. He had heard her. He had heard her.

Feeling an amazing rush of differing emotions, the mother ran from the stone that night. At once she was a mix of embarrassment, intrigue and amazement. She could not believe that after all those years, someone –anyone - had seen and heard her most precious self, and that sharing it had been so effortless. She never imagined it would be so easy, so intense, and so beautiful.

But next she felt a rush of guilt. She had always intended to share her voice only with those closest to her. No one else should know that part of her, and certainly no one else should be touched by it. Now this man, this angel, had seen and heard into her very depths. He now knew what no one else ever had. She hadn’t intended to find him. She hadn’t intended to sing for him. And yet it had happened all the same.

Then, washing aside the guilt, a smile crept into her mouth and began to spread incredible joy throughout her soul, into every nook and cranny of her being. As she ran, she began to dance as well – leaping and swirling, arms outstretched as if they could somehow transmit her happiness to any space she passed through. Indeed, the bear cubs stirred momentarily, sighing contentedly in their sleep. Even the loggers felt a sudden rush of warmth in their chilly cabins as she passed by, and fretful dreams faded into distant fog.

That night, as she lay her head down on her pillow for her short rest, she wondered if she would be able to bring herself to return to the stone. Would the man be there? Would her singing touch him again, and would he touch her again in return with the gift of flowers? Suddenly she couldn’t imagine her life without the embrace of his soul, and just as suddenly she couldn’t imagine indulging in the decadence of such wonderful moments ever again. Would she return to the stone? What would become of her life if she did? And more important still, what would become of her life if she didn’t?

12/07/2002

Author's Note: I know, perhaps this story comes off a little self-indulgent. I hope not. It is more of a wishing that someday, someone might catch me singing and find it precious.

Posted on 12/12/2003
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie