Stolen Measures

The father’s song is a whisper of promise. It’s a tenor that emulates the strength of a lion with the beauty of a bird's morning chirp. It shakes like leaves rustling in the breeze. A caress. It’s calm like the sea. It's blinding. It burns. It pulls you to unfathomable depths. It makes even unmovable rocks cry out.

It is said to be the first song, the lullaby he sang while he created. Love laced each tone. His patience filled each rest. His peace blessed every phrase. It’s the sound of your mother and father’s calming breaths speaking waves of calm into your spirit, a touch only they possess.

Consider that feeling never being yours, those kisses never warming your heart. Imagine the chaos.

But know, held beneath the two-mile city, there is such a melody masterfully made for you. It can soothe any raging tempest. And there’s a chance to witness it. Our father’s joy can be set free. I’ll do it. I’ll take Heaven’s song from the state that claims to see us, carry it to the highest mountain and I'll sing. The wind will sing it to you. And in a flood, tears will fall like rain.