the mind has mountains

Life is brief.
Fall in love, maidens,
before the crimson bloom
fades from your lips,
before the tides of passion
cool within you,
for those of you
who know no tomorrow.

My earliest memory is listening to my mother sing this song. My mother was a woman who was not beautiful except for when she sang, so she was always singing. I remember sitting at our kitchen table drawing childish pictures, enjoying her sweet soprano thrum through the walls of the house, glass shaking in the cabinet doors with her powerful vibrato.

I remember hating this song.

She always laughed when I told her. “I used to hate it too,” she said, which was really the worst answer possible to a child that wanted to learn.

“Then why do you always sing it?” I couldn’t understand the sudden tightness of her mouth.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, picking me up and putting me on the counter. I took the large, brightly painted spoon from her and stirred the salad. “I think it’s because as you grow older, you understand it better.”

I didn’t ask her what she meant, preoccupied as I was with picking up the bits of lettuce my inept stirring sent tumbling out of the bowl. Smiling, she took it from me and I watched enviously as she expertly spread the dressing with a few decisive twists of her wrist.

“Maybe you’ll like it too,” she told me. I snorted. She was always saying things like that to me, maybe you’ll want to get married, maybe you’ll want to have kids, maybe you’ll be able to stir this salad.

I never believed her.

“Life is brief,” she sang, sweet and bright, and I remember thinking that such a song shouldn’t be sung with such pleasure, but she seemed so beautiful and I didn’t say anything. “For those of you who know no tomorrow.”

. . .

Life is brief.
Fall in love, maidens,
before his hands
take up his boat,
before the flush of his cheeks fades,
for those of you
who will never return here.

When I met Novah Kenji, I was instantly reminded of my father. He didn’t look or act much like him but they spoke the same way, in a low voice edged with command, and the resemblance was, at the time, eerie.

Novah laughed when I told him that. Then I added that my father had been an inconsiderate jerk, wiping the smirk off his face, but it made Auberon laugh.

“She’s right,” Auberon defended himself when Novah glared, but I gave him a quick smile, appreciating the support. I liked Auberon, but then again, it was hard not to; for a crown prince, he was exceptionally level-headed and pleasant company. I didn’t understand how such a nice person could be friends with somebody like Novah Kill-Or-Be-Killed Kenji, and I didn’t care to, then.

But Novah didn’t laugh and neither did he say much of anything, a thoughtful look on his face that suited the no-nonsense glasses sitting on his nose. I used to tease him for being such a dork, but Novah had always been remarkably self-possessed, even as a scrawny, unimpressive fourteen year-old, and my words slid off him like water on a mirror.

Later, Novah asked me why I hated my father.

“Why do you want to know?” I answered automatically, not really thinking about it as a mischievous zephyr blew my hair into Novah’s eyes. Annoyed, he brushed it away and I turned to look at my shoes. I didn’t want to talk about this, and not with him.

“Your father was the general,” he answered.

“Yes.”

“I’m going to be the general someday,” he informed me, and he didn’t even have the decency to sound pompous about it. Matter-of-fact, a natural truth. I supposed it was.

“I hated him because he died,” I said, also matter-of-fact. Two could play at this game. “He left us alone and he didn’t even care.” And then, because I felt like hurting him, “You will, too.”

His face went blank, and I ran before he could pin me with that awful glare.

When I got home that day, my mother wasn’t singing. Concerned, I went up to her and put an arm around her. “What’s the matter?”

She was mixing a salad for dinner, her mouth compressed into a thin slash across her face. The effect made her look hideous. She didn’t answer me, just kept chopping the lettuce. I opened my mouth, intending to make an issue of it, but her warning glance confused me, and the anxious ripple in her mud-colored wings silenced me completely. “Time for dinner,” she said.

We sat down to eat, both on opposite sides, the head of the table empty as it had been for years, long before my father actually died. For a little while, the only sounds were the quiet clinks of silverware on ceramic plates. The silence rang in my head in a way my mother’s vibrato never could, and I suddenly found myself missing that damn song. I wished she would sing it, but I took one peek at her stony countenance, and I didn’t dare.

Eventually, she cleared her throat. “Lili,” she began, and burst into tears.

I took her in my arms, dread sinking down my throat. I didn’t say anything; I let her explain.

“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I just – I miss your father. Very much.”

I thought about my father, then, and if he would’ve loved my mother more if she were less noisy and more beautiful. “Why would you miss him?”

She shook her head, but clung to me and cried. I held her and then, when she was done, cleared the table and helped her to bed. “Not without my tea,” she said, and chuckled weakly as I brought her a cup. “That’s my girl,” she said, giving me a kiss, and in her breath I smelled the sweet taint of what she liked to call herbs.

My mother never cried after that day. She didn’t sing anymore, either.

. . .

Life is brief.
Fall in love, maidens,
before the boat drifts away
on the waves,
before the hand resting on your shoulder
becomes frail,
for those who will never
be seen here again.

I remember hating this song, but as I buried my mother, I found myself singing it in a way she never had before. Where my mother’s voice pitched high with a lilting sweetness, mine hummed low and mournful. I stood at her grave, and I sang the song that made her seem beautiful, I sang it the way it’s supposed to be sung.

It’s not a happy song.

When I was done, Fala wrapped her arms around me and Auberon put his hand on my hair, offering silent comfort. I appreciated it, but I felt too cold to tell them. Because they were essentially good people, they seemed to understand.

“We’ll wait for you,” Auberon said, giving Novah a meaningful glance. Fala entwined her hand with his, and they took wing together. I didn’t know where they’d be waiting or even if I wanted to go, but they were gone before I thought to ask, and anyway, it didn’t seem to matter much. Novah had stayed, and suddenly, that seemed to matter a lot.

“What do you want?” I asked, curious. If I sounded rude, he ignored it.

“What’s that song you were singing?”

Oh. “Life is brief,” I said. “For those who will never be seen here again.”

It’s not a happy song. I wondered if my mother finally understood that.

Novah fell into silence. We stood there and I thought about how I would never hear my mother sing again. I was crying before I could even fully remember.

Novah didn’t touch me, but I could feel him hovering, wanting to help but unsure how. I put my head on his shoulder and he wound an arm around my waist, holding me as I cried, so much like I’d held my mother long ago. I wondered then if I would spend the rest of my life singing every day.

“Lili,” he said suddenly, “will you marry me?”

It seemed absurd to ask then, but I had known Novah our entire lives. The matter-of-fact boy had grown into the matter-of-fact man – a natural truth.

I wiped my eyes. “Yes,” I agreed.

He kissed my hair. “Don’t sound too excited.”

“Sorry.” We stayed there for a while, and I remembered my mother, a little more calmly now. She had been beautiful only when she sang happily, and I’d never met someone quite like her, the tiny woman with wings like mud and a voice like an angel. I remembered she had married a general and suffered for it.

“That song,” Novah said, voice low and thoughtful. “I don’t really like it.”

I surprised us both by laughing, sharp with half-hearted mirth. “Neither do I,” I told him. “I always hated it.”

My father had hated it, too. I think I understood why.

“It’s not a happy song,” I said, slowly, as if dissecting the words would make them true.

He looked at me with such soft eyes. “It’s not really sad, either, though,” he pointed out, and I had to kiss him through the tears.

. . .

Life is brief.
Fall in love, maidens,
before the raven tresses
begin to fade,
before the flame in your hearts
flickers and dies,
for those to whom today
will never return.

“Lili?” Novah’s standing at the door, listening to me sing. Immediately, I stop.

“Daddy!” Corinna squeals, and we both smile as our daughter flings herself into her father’s arms.

He kisses her hair and puts her on the kitchen counter, handing her a spoon to keep her busy. “Micah wrote,” he tells me, and I can tell he’s worried. “They’re in trouble.”

I consider this, and him. His eyes are hard after so many years and that makes me worried. “Don’t be too hard on him.”

This makes him pause and turn to face me fully. Probably he can hear the disconsolation in my voice, because the tight line of his mouth softens, barely perceptible, barely a comfort. “I can’t make any promises,” he says ruefully, and I’m just so tired of these unacceptable truths.

“I already knew that,” I tell him, and he takes my hands.

“I’ll be home soon,” he promises anyway, and I can’t help but smile as I kiss him goodbye. Corinna makes a sound of disgust, which makes him smile too.

“You’re being gross,” she informs us, in an acidic tone she certainly didn’t learn from me. “Again.”

“Sorry,” we both apologize, and Novah gives her a look that instantly straightens her tiny spine.

“Look after your mother until I’m back,” he instructs, and she gives him a clumsy salute as he leaves, like her brothers had done before her. I’m afraid of the military habits she’s already developing, until I see her struggling to mix the salad, sending vegetables flying left and right. There’s relief, then, and nostalgia too: powerful twin currents that strip my breath from me but leave me warm.

“Here,” I take the spoon and show her the swilling movements my mother had taught me. “Like this.” She scrunches her eyebrows and copies me carefully, and I find myself humming as I pick up lettuce and carrots.

Eventually, she relinquishes the spoon in defeat, and tries desperately to look like she doesn’t care. I think about reassuring her that she’ll be able to do anything she wants, but remember how much the maybes and somedays had once angered me. So I say nothing and put on a kettle of water to boil instead, and think of the lessons our parents leave behind, which is all I have of them now.  

“Mom?” Corinna sits cross-legged, her nose wrinkling as I add leaves and pungent herbs. “Why do you keep singing that song?”

I think of Novah, of how I drink tea with shaking hands while I wait for him to come home, which is the song for most of our married life. I think of my eldest, Nikitah, haunted by ghosts and his father’s expectations, in love in the worst way. I think of Micah, who tries so hard and loves the princess, and of Danah, who sees his brothers’ pains and keeps to himself in fear of the same. I think of Corinna, my only child I regularly see anymore, my only daughter who is quickly growing, who wants to know about me.

I think of my mother, who sang a song of pain but so beautifully, and of my father, who could not understand it, or didn’t want to.

“Mom?”

I turn my back to wipe my eyes. “Because I understand it now,” I say carefully, and it staggers me how much life it had taken to do so.

“I like it,” she announces, and gives a lopsided grin at my surprise. “How does it go again?”

Oh, I think. And because I can’t think of anything else, I sing, “Fall in love, maidens, before the crimson bloom fades.”

And my daughter, who is different from me, spends the afternoon learning the song that had given her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmothers beyond so much grief. But she is young, and life is brief, and when she sings it is bright and hopeful, voice piping high and clear as a bell. We sing it together, and it’s only then, with both bright and mournful tones overlapping, the highs and lows both accounted for, that the song feels complete, and my understanding of it shifts once more.

. . .

Life is brief.
Fall in love, maidens,
before the crimson bloom
fades…

On the stove, a kettle of tea sits untouched, forgotten until Novah comes home with our sons. My heart feels stretched, abused, and whole as I pass out tearful hugs, and though they return the embrace with ill grace, they whisper that they’ve missed me, and it’s enough. Corinna clings to Nikitah until he picks her up, and even Danah is drawn out of his room to join the reunion, our family for once united and happy to see each other.

“So, what’ve you been up to?” Nikitah asks his sister, tickling her wings until she falls off his lap.

She sits up, indignant at our laughter. “I learned Mom’s song!” she exclaims, and they turn to look at me, eyebrows raised.

I raise my hands in a gesture of innocence. “She’s incorrigible,” I protest, and Corinna whines at me until I join her in the song I used to hate. We get about halfway through before Novah interrupts me with a kiss, and Danah surprises us by taking up the duet, intoning solemnly as his sister trills happily.

And as I pick up the neglected pot of tea, I think then of the life I’ve built. This is the little part of me I keep for myself, little parts I learned from my mother even though I never wanted to, a song of life and an herbal tea to make me forget it. But listening to the sounds of my family, my life, I realize I don’t want to forget. Not tonight.

I pour the tea down the sink.

My hands shake, but Novah is suddenly there somehow, protective hands enclosing mine. He puts the teapot on the counter and pulls me against him, and I somehow blush at the look in his eyes.

“You’re very beautiful, you know,” he says evenly. I look at my shoes and smile.

I am, I know I am, but I never feel it when I sing, not like that. And I realize that I’ve been singing like that far too much for far too long.

I want to change that, so I give him a kiss and a new song.  

. . .

…Before the tides of passion
cool within you,
for those of you
who know no tomorrow.