Choir Girl

The rain was pouring as a young girl, not older then sixteen probably, made her way across the street. She didn’t have an umbrella nor did she sport a jacket of any kind, but even though the torrent of water seemed like it would not end any time soon, so did she continue walking along her path. Her black shirt clinging to her skin, jeans heavy with water and her long raven hair strewn across her face, the young girl made her way into the vicinity of the small town parish. The moment she arrived and entered the shelter of the church, she immediately rushed up the stairs to the small room dedicated to the members of its choir, ignoring the gazes of the few churchgoers and the trail of water she left in her path. The sound of his holiness’s sermon echoed throughout the building, as the young girl made her way up. Finally reaching the top of the steps, she stopped, bowed ever so slightly, and then knocked on the door. Opening as if on signal, she entered, shivering slightly as a small draft blew in. Only three people stood in the presence of the small balcony overlooking the mass, and one small piano resting in the corner. A boy not much older then she, sat in front of the piano, reviewing various pieces and silently practicing notes as most musicians do, not even looking up as she entered. Yet he acknowledged her arrival by signalling to a towel resting on the only other stool in the room. The two others were girls like her, one looking to be around eleven years of age, and the other maybe seven. They were both reading through some sheets until she entered, and as she did, they looked at her with disgust noting her soaked clothes and hair. And without a second glance, they continued to review their lyrics. The young girl picked up the towel, and dried her hair in a rush, for she knew the father’s sermon was coming to its end. Squeezing the last excess water from her clothes onto a puddle on the floor, she made her way towards the balcony’s rails and along with the two other girls, prepared herself to sing. As the creed was being recited by the mass, the two girls beside her practice their do-re-mi’s and the young boy warming the keys, the young girl shivered again. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and looked out across the crowd. She glanced at the small stage, and back to her watch, alternating as if she had little time to spare and wanted to know when all this was ending. And right then, the girl in her soaked black shirt and wet jeans began to sing. Before the creed had even finished. Before the boy had begun to play. Before the other girls could even ready their lyrics. She began to sing her song. Every churchgoer, along with the priest, stared up in her direction looking with a mock-awe or obvious disdain. The ones beside her did the same, yet she continued to sing. Each note long and cold, empty of the many emotions you would expect to find in a song. As she entered her chorus, tears began to well up in her eyes. And when she moved to bridge, they were already streaming down her face. Finally, the last note had echoed through the walls and everything was still. Not one made a sound. The young girl looked to the pew at the very front the mass, where she met the gazes of her father and mother. And as the murmurs and commotion began to unfold and questions from beside her wondering what that was all about, she mouthed to them, “I miss her.” And they looked towards the stage. At the little girl sleeping on the bed of flowers.