Thyme

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme

My mother used to sing to me as a child.

It always made me uncomfortable, like something inside me was squirming in impatience, wishing for her

to stop.

I always sat silently, though, and waited for her to finish, frozen in position so that she wouldn’t come

any closer.

Growing up, I was taught that my discomfort was secondary to the emotional displays of my parents

Let her sing to you

She loves you very much

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

She does everything for you

You should listen to her

To her song

So I was never comfortable around people who sang

I was scared of that expression, scared of the attention that might follow it

When people sang I always cringed, and ducked my head, and tapped my fingers and waited for it to end

I could never look a singer in the eyes

In case they decided to meet mine back

Or worse, first

I remember the first time I met you

I would hide in my tent and bury my head in the pillow when you sang

You were unlike anyone

You had a beautiful voice

I didn’t trust how freely you sang

Without consequence

I didn’t trust an absence of consequence

I still don’t.

I didn’t understand how you could do that to yourself

Essentially rejecting yourself to us

Right?

But I’m not a child anymore

I miss your freedom

Your smile

Your bewilderingly radiant optimism

Your everything

I see you in strangers

When they smile like you

I look again

Thinking I‘ll see you next to me

I’m not a child anymore.

I’ve long left girlhood behind.

And I wish you still sang.