It didn’t feel like winter in New Jersey and washing the car in shorts and a tee shirt definitely didn’t inspire the belting out of Auld Lang Syne. That didn’t stop Melly. She was a thirty something with the soul of a dreamer. By day she worked in a doctor’s office, by night she was a goofball with a karaoke machine and a scuffed, leather bound journal filled with song lyrics. She had kept the book for as long as anyone could remember. When some of the pages had fallen out she would slip them in the back to later tape in place. It held bits and pieces of song ideas, mostly in the form of lyrics, they came to her in dreams. Never published but always tucking notes into her pockets, Melly had the heart of a poet but the patience of an egg timer. Coincidentally, her songs never lasted longer than the length of a two minute egg.
She wrote in her sleep, she wrote in the shower, she wrote on the toilet and wrote in the car. When she wasn’t making up songs, she was singing very loudly and very poorly. There was a time, before her mother died, that Melly thought her songs would lead her to finding her bliss but that, she figured, was a childish dream.
“Well, of course it’s childish to dream of doing what you love,” her mother used to tell her, “you are your parent’s child my sweet.”
Melly missed her so desperately that her mother would invade her dreams. Now and then Melly could manipulate her dreams enough to have a fresh pot of tea, a little squeeze bear of locally bottled honey and a plate of freshly baked bread on the kitchen table waiting for her. When Melly ran a fever she could open the door to her mother’s visits during every night’s sleep.
“You’re lonely sweet girl.” Her mother would tell her. “And, you’re afraid.”
One dream night, while she buttered the bread and poured the tea, she confessed her loneliness, “You’re right Mom, I am afraid. You’d be so disappointed in me. I…”
“Never!” Her mother interrupted.
“I’ve come to a conclusion about love and life.” Melly said as she wiped a fleck of sweet cream butter from the corner of her mouth. “I think it is too dangerous to get close to someone. I mean what is the point? There are only a fist full of outcomes,” Melly said as she counted on her fingers, “he dies or she dies, he leaves or she leaves,” she paused and put her teacup down in disgust. “Or, you grow old and watch the love of your life die slowly.” Melly leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest in disgust. “It’s not worth the pain.”
“Goodnight Melly.” Her mother said as she got up from the table and cleared the dishes. She said not another word.
Melly did not remember having a dream visit from her mother for weeks. The warm days of winter finally turned into snowstorms and low temperatures. Work was at a status quo and everything seemed to take a steady path of inertia. One thing changed, Melly wasn’t writing song lyrics anymore. Looking at herself in the fogged bathroom mirror she told her reflection that, “writing love songs is pointless without finding my melody maker.” She let go a long deep exhale. “Mom?” She called to no one. “I was right wasn’t I? I mean about not getting hurt? But, what if I’m wrong? Sometimes I think he’s out there missing me, ya know? I mean is someone aching over a missed chance of finding me, just like I am likewise?” She used a washcloth to wipe the fog off the mirror. “What drivel.”
Melly worked at the clinic straight through lunch and stopped off at the grocery store to pick up some dinner. On her way out the sliding doors a notice caught her attention. It was a lavender flyer dusted with silver glitter and had small, partially torn tabs at the bottom.
“Think you’re creative? Want to put your talents to the test? Announcing our first ever songwriting contest.” She stood there reading and rereading the flyer before tentatively tearing off a tab and slipping it into the front pocket of her scrubs.
The following days were spent putting thoughts on paper. She stashed her leather songbook everywhere she went. At home it was always by her side. In the bedroom, she slept with it under her pillow so she could record her dreams in the middle of the night and jot down lyrics if she could remember any good bits. At work she kept her confidant in her lunch bag as it was too big to slip into her lab coat.
She finally had lyrics that could not only fill a three minute song but, Melly thought, had a good chance of winning the song contest, that is, if she could come up with a solid tune to fit it. Searching for a beat, she would spit out lyrics jogging in the park. Strangers would even catch her beatboxing while she shoe shopped in the mall. Melly had her song laid out on the kitchen table with her contest entry form. But without the tune her submission was sure to be rejected before anyone had the opportunity to judge it.
That night Melly went to bed with a sore throat, a headache and a sizable amount of cherry Nyquil in her. Soon she was taking the kettle off the stove and pouring two cups for tea. Her mother opened up a tin of biscuits as Melly grabbed the squeeze bear of honey.
“You haven’t been around much Melly. Tired of your old mom?”
“Tired of you? Never! Frankly I thought it was you that’s been keeping to yourself. Mom,” she said hesitantly, “I feel like I might have upset you when we were talking last. I never meant to…”
“Sweetheart, honestly, you didn’t upset me. No, you pissed me off.”
“Wow,” Melly said as she felt her jaw drop. “I don’t think I ever…”
Melly’s mother was pacing the galley kitchen and motioned Melly to her. “Come with me Melly.”
“Oh boy, do I really want to be alone with you when you’re upset?”
“Pissed dear, the word is pissed and yes you do, but we won’t be alone.”
Melly felt her mother’s hand take hold of her wrist and give her a good tug around the corner of her little apartment kitchen. What should have been Melly’s living room was a sunny street of smallish and strikingly similar ranch homes.
“It’s just dream time, don’t let it freak you out sweetheart.” Her mother said calmly.
“Am I supposed to know that I’m dreaming? Melly asked feeling very confused. “I mean, I know it’s a dream to spend time with you but we never actually acknowledge that I know it’s a dream or, for that matter, that you know it’s a dream or that either of us knows the other knows.”
“Don’t overthink it Mel. I just want to show you the first home you ever knew. Does the street look familiar?”
“Not so much, but this house, I know it from the old photo albums you kept.”
Melly held her mother’s hand as she was lead to the backyard where a party was in progress.
“To my best friend, the love of my life, my best girl…and her mother!” It was Melly’s father teasing her mother.
“I wanted to say that!” Melly’s mother teased back.
It was just baby Melly, and her parents sharing an intimate moment in their postage stamp of a backyard. They were all sitting on top of each other and laughing until their sides hurt.
“Stop Jack, I’m going to pee myself!”
“I think our Melly beat you to it. Here you go little Mel, let Daddy change you.” He pulled out a pamper from the diaper bag and began to hum an unfamiliar tune.
Melly couldn’t take her eyes off the young couple, “You’re both so young. Poor Daddy, how soon after this did he die Mom?”
“It was later that night.”
Melly made a guttural sound as if someone had just punched her in the chest. “Oh Mommy, and we were all so happy.”
Melly’s mother turned her daughter towards her. “Your ‘he dies or she dies’ scenario hurt me and insulted these memories I have of your father.” Her forehead furrowed.
“Don’t ever tell me that the short time I had with the love of my life wasn’t worth it.”
The sound of Melly’s father humming his tune as he powdered his baby and kissed his young wife carried Melly from her dream back to her bedroom. In the morning she woke from her fever and as she showered, found herself humming an original melody recovered from her father who had died twenty nine years earlier.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 