It is me.
Hushed conversation surrounds me, and gentle hands caress my face, but I can’t concentrate on them. Not when everything hurts so much.
What is the fire in my stomach?
Am I dying?
Is this what dying feels like?
Thousands of needles piercing into the skin.
Poking…
Stabbing…
Then it is gone. Replaced by a deep, smooth voice that surrounds me like the warmth of a summer wind, but with the bite of a winter chill. The scent of orange and cedarwood wash over me. A juxtaposition of sensations that calm the frenzy gripping my mind.
A low thrumming fills my veins as I listen, the pain ebbing slightly at the rich tones of lyrics I know all too well. Wetness gathers on my cheeks, the warmth causing a harsh sting against the chill of my skin, but I welcome it eagerly.
“Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín.
Hó bha ín, mo ghrá.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
Agus codail, go lá.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
‘Is hó bha ín mo roghain.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
Is gabh amach a bhadhbh badhbh.
Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín.
Hó bha ín, mo ghrá.
Hó bha ín, mo leana,
Agus codail, go lá.”
Those hauntingly familiar lyrics are the last thing I remember before darkness rushes up to greet me.
Over the years under Elias’s roof, the memories of my mother had begun to wane, and I often wondered which of them were real. There were times, when I’d been left in the dark, confined space of the shed, that many of the moments that came to me felt—fake. Like I had somehow conjured them up in my imagination to stave off the repressing darkness.
Hó bha ín, Hó bha ín
Sleep, my child. Sleep, my child.
The familiar tune tugs at the edges of my fraying memory, the tapestry of my mind slowly unraveling to reveal the pattern beneath.
I nearly forgot those words.
Those lyrics.
She used to sing them to me every single night before I went to bed.
