Ugh. Just dreary. Absolutely miserable. Like… the worst. Well, maybe for you and me.
Little Miss Hobbs was lying down on the couch, snuggled with a blanket and fluffy pillow, a steaming mug of ginger lemon tea on the small coffee table next to her, and these, her only respite from the terrible plague that was pestering her. Outside was the typical, beautiful sky she adored and admired on a daily basis, because beautiful people admire beautiful things, even the things that show up day in and day out. But it was pure drear inside.
She hummed her crackled hum in defiance of her sore throat until it hurt too much and she was dissatisfied with her lack of discernable melody. It was a melancholic tune but it made her feel better to contrast the way she felt with a song that just might lighten her heart.
Sing to the rose that lies on the tomb
If you were the one, why didn’t you bloom
The things that we love are cut down to soon
And I’ll never forget you
Shadows and gray skies will ever loom
Above apple blossoms: gossamer on boon
And so I sing this transient tune
And I’ll never forget you
No longer able to withstand the claws of her sore throat, she remained silent, the song still playing over again in her mind. Somehow the synchrony between her physical state and the song cheered up her heart so her emotions reflected more accurately the lightly blowing breeze outside. The tree on the other side of the window seemingly swayed to the tempo of the tune, dropping leaves here and there for dramatic effect, and inviting her to come dance. It made her smile brightly, but only from her eyes.
Most children enjoy being tended to by their mothers when they are under the weather, but Little Miss Hobbs needed only the weather to tend to her, and mayhaps a bottle of bubbles to blow indoors without a mother to scold her about the scum it’d surely leave on the windows and floor. I’ve spoken quite at length about the strength of Little Miss Hobbs, but what else could one expect when the Designer bottled so much goodness into one of such small stature? I daresay if her heart were made much lighter or she much shorter, she’d float off like a sky lantern in a Chinese Harvest Moon Festival. Or, if she were much sweeter, she’d be a mooncake.
And so, after a few more sips of her tea (and, of course, another scoop or two of honey), she tried humming once again. She thought she might possibly be able to hum the scratchiness away like screaming in the ear of an impish sibling. She hummed all the louder, but it only seemed to exacerbate the problem. She wished only that it were gloomy outside and cheery inside, because at least if it was cheery inside, she’d have her voice to keep her company, and her beloved tapping rain beckoning her to come and dance. Certainly she would then join the dance.
The only thing worse than not being able to sing well is not being able to sing at all, she concluded, so she sipped her tea in silence and smiled at the dancing leaves with her bright eyes.