My finger has healed enough for me to resume typing. The nail still could fall off but at least the wound is healed. The lower part of the nail is beginning to catch so I may have to keep it covered overnight so I don’t accidentally rip it of with the bed clothes. St least I can type with out finger bumping the touch screen with the fat protective wadding I’ve had to use.
Darkness had become Emma’s life since the accident. The impact had left her permanently blind. The loss of her only child was the greatest burden to bear. Nothing would console her aching heart. No one could help relieve her pain. Not even James, who had sat by her bed through all the weeks of recovery, could comfort her.
True, it was not her fault. Emma had pulled to a stop at the intersection when the lights had changed from amber to red. She could still hear three-year-old Kate singing her favourite nursery rhyme from her child safety seat in the back of the family car. The truck had come through the red-light opposite and swerved to miss a motorcycle. The truck had lost control and veered directly into Emma’s car, slamming it into the car behind. The collision had also crushed her car into a van parked beside her, near the kerb.
There wasn’t much she could remember of the accident itself, except for the melody of her child’s song resounding in her ears. Emma hadn’t even been aware her sweet young daughter had been laid to rest until she awoke from her coma three weeks later. It had been the same distressing morning she had discovered she would never again, gaze into the eyes of her beloved husband. Her heart ached so much she thought she would die.
It must have worried James to see her this way. Even after weeks of counseling and rehabilitation, she never smiled. One Sunday after the sermon, her mother led her to the Sunday School hall where coffee was being served. James told Emma he needed to speak to their pastor and it was some time before he returned to take her home.
The following morning James stayed home a little later than usual.
‘I’m waiting for a delivery,’ he explained to Emma over breakfast.
Emma heard the doorbell first and edged her way to the front door, using her cane along the walls to guide her. James came to her side, and with an arm around her waist, he directed her to the front door.
‘It’s here. Where do you want us to put it?’
Emma didn’t recognize the cheerful voice. She assumed it was a just a delivery man. James led her to a chair in the lounge room so she would not be in harm’s way. James kissed her briefly, preventing her from asking any questions. ‘Wait here a moment, honey.’
‘This way!’ James called.
Emma could hear furniture being dragged across the carpeted floor. Muffled sounds came closer as James gave directions into the room. It was obviously no small package.
Excitement crept into Emma’s emotions. ‘What is it James? Please tell me.’
A few moments later, James thanked the delivery men and closed the front door.
Without answering, James led Emma across the room to a long, flat stool and gently pulled her down to sit beside him. He reached for her hands and placed them gently on the keyboard. Her hands drew back.
‘A piano?’ Emma was puzzled.
‘Play for me?’ he asked softly.
‘But how can I see what I’m playing?’
James helped her adjust the stool so she could comfortably reach the keys. Gently lifting one of her hands, he helped her strike the keys. They both laughed and together they played a melody using two fingers. The words came easily.
“Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are…”
Emma began to cry and hugged her husband closely. She knew he had been conscious of her the pain. It would be the foundation of her healing; a healing of the heart.
Emma continues to play her piano. She is a songwriter and sings at their family church.
A new melody echoes in her heart. A melody of God’s grace and love.
© Chrissy Siggee
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
[Author of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star: Unknown… Public domain]