Nothing's gonna change my world. Nothing's gonna change my worrrrld.
Her singing catches me up.
Nothing's gonna change my worrrrld.
It makes me sad, suddenly and powerfully sad. Nothing will ever fix that break between thinking nothing is going to change your world and it changing. Her sister died. That is normal to her. One day, someone will tell her that not every sister dies, and that her having a dead sister is something to be immensely sad about. One day, she will ask me if I love her sister more than her, because, well, my world changed when her sister died inside of me. I am still making sense of that, even if it is for a moment during a Beatles song sung by a four year old.
Nothing's gonna change my worrrld.
She skips across the floor. In that crystal clear bell of a voice, she sings the saddest song in the world like it is the most hopeful.
Tryyyy and you will go hooooooommmme.
I like her words better than the sanskrit.
Try and you will go home.
I had this image in my mind all day of Lucia, lying still on the hospital bed, as I undress her. (I forgot to do that.) I count her toes. (I forgot to do that. Did she have ten?) While Lucia lies on the bed, I bend over her, cover her bruises with sea lavender, and salvia, and lavender. Dried and fragrant. The purple of her torn skin, and the indigo of her bruises turn into flowers. I baptise her with rosewater and kisses. She turns into a sketch of a girl that comes to life, and dances around me, singing in flowers. The smell of holy covers us.
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting thorough my open mind, possessing and caressing me.
She is sitting still now on the ground, doing an intricate small movement of her hand, weaving yarn together. Her movement is poetry and magic and the sun and the universe, because it is here and I can watch it. But I cannot hold it, no matter how hard I try. I capture it in words, and repeat them until I get somewhere to write them, and they are changed, like she is suddenly. This is a meditation and a lesson and the morning and the mourning.