Alma grew up nurtured by song. From the time she was born, her mother sang as she cooked, cleaned, and darned socks. She sang when Alma skinned her knees and she sang when Alma graduated elementary school - her mother’s voice woke her in the morning and lulled her to sleep at night. But Alma began to notice a break in her mother’s singing when she winced from walking up the front steps of the house or when Alma hugged her too tightly . Her mother went to the doctor, and soon after medical bills began to pile up and her mother began to sing less and spend her time sleeping. The neighbors ushered in to take care of Alma, her mother, and her house. Her mother was very sick, they told her, her mother needed her rest or the disease would take her completely.
The disease, or bone cancer Alma soon found out it was called, had somehow managed to turn her mother to glass, and Alma became afraid to touch her or even be near her mother. As if her very proximity would cause her mother to shatter, she was frightened to touch her; Alma very well knew that she would be unable to fix her when she finally fell apart. She avoided her mother for the most part, only kissing her in the morning and evenings and bringing her breakfast. She took her meals in her room or spent time outside with the other children of the barrio, unable to handle the silence.
As weeks passed and with each week arrived a new problem and new bills, Alma found herself hiding things from her mother. Whenever her socks were worn with holes she learned to darn them herself. She learned how to tape up her shoes so her mother wouldn’t be burdened with having to buy anything. She hemmed her pants, and she cleaned the house when the neighbors were unable to come. It became common for her to dawdle after school, to allow her feet to take her to any place in the barrio. Anywhere else besides her silent house.
One day, she found her feet carrying her to the local parish, and there she prayed. She prayed to Jesus, Saint Mary, God, Saint Raphael - anyone who would hopefully listen and make her mother better. To make her mother sing again, to make her happy. Weeks passed and with every week she went to the church after school to pray once more. Her mother’s long hair was falling out in clumps, drifting to the ground like forgotten papers.
Alma visited the church again on Thursday, holding her left shoe in her hand. It had finally split into two unfixable pieces. She set the broken shoe on the pew next to her and pressed her hands together, she closed her eyes and prayed as she did everyday hoping that some saint would take pity on her mother’s burden and lift it. A hand rested on her shoulder. She looked up to see Father Ortega.
“Back again, mija? Praying for your mother?”
Alma nodded, and looked at the ground. Her eyes were watering. Ortega sat next to her, silent.
“Why don’t they listen to me?”
“Who?”
“The saints….God…they all ignore me. They’re not helping my mother. I don‘t understand,” her voice was shaking slightly.
“You want to know a secret, Alma? I’ve been studying God and the saints for most of my life, and I don’t understand them either, but I do know that you’re not alone and that they do hear you. They act in strange ways that you and I can’t possibly understand.”
“Will my mother get better?” Alma asked; she was looking at him now. She found it rather easy to talk to him, it was like talking to her mother. Complete understanding and love.
“I don’t know, but we can hope, can’t we? We can love her can’t we? We can be with her and help her through this, can’t we?”
“I haven’t been with her,” Alma broke out into a sob. “I’ve been avoiding her.”
Father Ortega placed his hand over Alma’s, “This is hard thing for you and your mother, and you’re dealing with it the only way you know how. It’s not the best way, but we all do it. We all run away from are problems when we should be facing them head on. Come, let’s talk to your mother.”
Father Ortega pulled her up gently by the hand. Alma picked up her shoe and followed him out of the church.
“What happened to your shoe?”
“It’s been falling apart, and I don’t know what to do…”
“I’ll buy you another pair.”
“Thank you, Father.”
When they reached the house, Alma unlocked the door and led Father Ortega in. He walked ahead of her and towards her mother’s room where he knocked on the door. “It’s Jorge Ortega,” he said. “May I come in?” Her mother was silent, but eventually welcomed him in. Alma waited in the kitchen.
After a half-hour of waiting, the Father walked into the room. He smiled at Alma and wrote down her size shoe and promised her a new pair the next day when she came to church. He left soon after, and as Alma walked towards her mother room, she heard a noise. It was soft as a whisper at first, but grew until Alma realized that it was her mother - singing.
[spoiler]The prompt was write a piece with a surprise ending for my creative writing class.
[/spoiler]
)