Page 11 of A Virgo's Muse
“You dressed up for me?” I teased, leaning down to hug him.
“I dress up for my girls,” he said. “And your mama asked me to play that vinyl that she loves this morning. I figured I oughta show some respect.”
I looked toward the bed. My mother was resting, eyes halfway open, staring off at something none of us could see. Her frame had grown smaller, her skin paler than I remembered. She looked fragile, like one deep sigh would make her disappear.
“Hi, Mama,” I whispered, walking over to her side.
She blinked slowly then turned her head a fraction. Her eyes never quite focused on mine, but her fingers twitched beneath the blanket when I brushed her hand.
“She’s been quiet today,” Daddy said, coming over with a warm cloth. “Didn’t eat much breakfast. I think she’s tired, but she waits for you, you know?”
I swallowed the knot in my throat and sat beside her. Gently, I took her hand in both of mine and pressed it to my cheek.
“I missed you,” I whispered.
Her fingers moved barely, but it was enough, enough for me to hold on to.
We sat in silence for a while. The only sound came from the low hum of the air vent and the soft instrumental music my dad always played through the little speaker near her bedside. It used to be jazz. Now, it was old soul and R&B, the kind of music that made you feel every lyric even if no one was singing.
“I don’t know if she’s holding on for herself anymore,” I said softly.
Daddy looked at her then at me. “She’s holding on for us.”
“I don’t want her to feel like she has to.”
He nodded, his voice low and heavy. “I think she’s just waiting to make sure we’re gonna be alright.”
I looked back down at her, my thumb tracing the lines of her hand like it was a map I hadn’t memorized in years.
“When the fire happened… when the house burned down,” I choked back a tear, “I didn’t think we’d survive it. Everything was in that house—memories, paintings, her favorite records.”
“She’s still here. So are you.”
I closed my eyes.
“And when she’s not?”
“You keep going. You create. You love. You live. That’s all she’s ever wanted for you.”
I stayed the entire afternoon. I helped spoon feed my mother what little soup she could stomach. I read aloud from one of her old journals and listened to Daddy talk about how he met her, as if I didn’t already know every detail.
“You know… she told me once,” he said as he sat back in his chair, “that you’d fall for someone who didn’t just see your beauty but understood your silence.”
I smiled faintly.
“She said that, huh?”
“Mmhm. Said it would take someone who doesn’t flinch at your walls, someone who doesn’t get scared off by your strength.”
The image of Onyx flooded my thoughts again. Dark eyes that saw through me, steady hands that never rushed me, a voice that poured into my soul like honey over wounds.
“I think I met him,” I whispered.
My father looked at me with a knowing smile. “Then don’t push him away because it feels unfamiliar. That’s where the good stuff lives.”
When I kissed my mother’s forehead before leaving, I swear I felt her lean into me just slightly. A faint hum passed from her lips so quiet I thought I imagined it, but I didn’t. That was her way of saying she remembered, even just for a second.
I could smellgunpowder before I stepped into the room. There was a thick tension that clung to your lungs like bad memories. Warehouse lights buzzed overhead, flickering dimly. Three of Santos’s men were posted near the far end, acting like I hadn’t been tracking their every move for the last ten minutes.
