suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

“Don’t go.” Rue tightens her grip on my hand.
“Course not. Staying right here,” I say. I move in closer to
her, pulling her head onto my lap. I gently brush the dark,
thick hair back behind her ear.
“Sing,” she says, but I barely catch the word.
Sing? I think. Sing what? I do know a few songs. Believe it or
not, there was once music in my house, too. Music I helped
make. My father pulled me in with that remarkable voice —
but I haven’t sung much since he died. Except when Prim is
very sick. Then I sing her the same songs she liked as a baby.
Sing. My throat is tight with tears, hoarse from smoke and
fatigue. But if this is Prim’s, I mean, Rue’s last request, I have
to at least try. The song that comes to me is a simple lullaby,
one we sing fretful, hungry babies to sleep with, It’s old, very
old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music
teacher calls a mountain air. But the words are easy and
soothing, promising tomorrow will be more hopeful than this
awful piece of time we call today.
I give a small cough, swallow hard, and begin:
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
Here it’s safe, here it’s warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
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