Mama used to tell me that all you needed in life is hope and a song. That's me, by the way. My name is Hope and I am a normal 10 year old. Well, as normal as I could be.
You see, when I was 7, Mama became an angel. One moment I held her in my arms and sang her favorite song, and the next she slipped away from me, her eyes closing as the sun went down, mirroring her image. She succumbed to her illness.
I like to think that she's still with me, still in my arms as I cuddle her and breathe in her intoxicating scent. I live with my aunt now. I remember the day we went to spread her ashes. Aunt said that we had to spread them in Mama's favorite place and if I knew where it was. I nodded eagerly as I took her by the hand and led her there.
We stood by the sea as water lapped onto my bare feet, spreading through my toes as tears dripped down our faces. I emptied the urn, watching Mama binding and fusing with the great current.
As long as I had this place, Mama would be with me forever. She was my gateway to life. Though, her ashes went away from me and left me with a broken heart. So did my voice.
I simply stopped talking. It wasn't a conscious decision, you see. My voice didn't go away. It abandoned me.
If Mama was gone, why should I speak anymore? Who would I come home to, to read my newest book? Mama used to love me reading to her when she became ill. She said my voice was soothing, like a balm and better than any medicine they could give her.
I also sang. Music was my everything, second to my mother of course. I listened avidly to other artists, noticing every change in pitch and tone, listening to them crooning and replicating that for Mama. My voice was that of an angel, she said.
I'd perform at school, or at parties. Up there on the stage, fear would enter me as pesky butterflies wriggled in my belly. One look at Mama's face and I'd be fine.
Her smile shone brighter than all the stars combined and I'd sing, the words fighting each other to roll off my tongue as my own smile mirrored hers. Her applause would always be the loudest.
I don't speak not because people won't listen. They do, they try and coax me into letting slip a word or two. I don't speak because she's not there to listen. I don't have a purpose. Just like I don't have a mother anymore.
She was my gateway to life. She was meant to lead me by the hand into the world.
She was my gateway to life. She was meant to lead me by the hand into the world. No hope, so no song.
... I chose to write on Commaful because I thought it would be a good way of letting my writing mature. You see, I wanted to be a writer when I was younger. Still do now, I suppose, though I have other careers I am interested in doing beside this.
This story idea is one of the many ideas stewing away in my mind but I decided that it's not developed enough to be written into a full novel. So I thought I'd share it with you! At least, the very basis of the story...
Thanks for reading! That's Iqra... OUT.