The Song of Creation

by Steve Parolini

I – Here With Me

His cry was a song. A curiously beautiful melody that danced through the maternity ward, first mingling with, then rising above the wails of hunger and worry offered by the other swaddled infants. 

It wasn’t merely one cry among a dozen. It was something different. Something new. 

The nurses noticed. 

The Boy’s parents noticed.

“What does it mean?” they wondered.

The Boy didn’t have an answer. All he had was the song. 

So he sang. 

II - Of Life and Limb

The Father accelerated slowly through the intersection, moving with caution – too much caution for the cars behind him. 

Honking. Yelling. “What’s yer problem, buddy?”

He nodded apologetically to the cars that passed too fast, too close for comfort. But he did not speed up. He was transporting precious cargo. 

He glanced in the mirror, saw the car seat, facing backwards as instructed. He wished he could catch a glimpse of The Boy’s face. What would he find? What does someone so new to this world see in it? 

And who will he be?

The question sent a shudder down The Father’s spine, then hardened his resolve. 

He stole a glance at his calloused hands gripping the steering wheel. And the dirt under his fingernails.

“My Boy will be more,” he said aloud. So much more. 

The Mother reached up from the back seat where she watched The Boy with wonder and put her hand on The Father’s shoulder. 

It was a wordless act that spoke volumes. 

The city sounds faded and they embraced The Boy’s song like a sacrament. 

III – Where I Was Meant to Be

The Boy grew into his skin like so many other boys, all knobby knees and wild hair. But still he hummed his song. It helped him think. It helped him focus. It made him feel safe. And sometimes the song spoke to him, nudged him, guided him. 

It helped him to see.

“You are so lonely,” he said to a waitress one day. “Someone loves you.” She turned her head and hurried away. 

“You’re sad,” he told his piano teacher another day. She just cleared her throat and turned the page. 

“Someone is hurting you,” he said to a classmate one day. That got him detention. And an unwelcome nickname.

The Freak.

Is that what I am? A freak?

The Boy began to shut down. He turned inward. He stopped talking. He started dressing to disappear. And then he started to actually disappear, choosing the solidarity and solitude of the forest above the company of others. 

There, the song became a symphony. The trees sang with whispering leaves. The birds trilled their haunting harmonies. Even the rocks joined in with their echoing silence.

Yes, thought The Boy. This is where I was meant to be.

IV – Therapy

His parents began to worry. And so they sent him to therapy.

“Have a seat,” said the woman. The Boy sat.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.

“Because my parents don’t know what to do with me,” he said.

“Because your parents love you,” she gently corrected.

The Boy didn’t realize he was humming until the woman asked him about the song. He stopped humming and looked inside her. This woman is hopeful. She is kind. But she is also broken.

She asked him questions. The Boy answered. 

“Would you like to talk with me again?” she asked when their time was up.

He thought about that for a moment. “If it will help you, yes,” he said finally.

Her head tilted slightly. Then she smiled. “Yes, it will help me,” she said. 

As he walked down the long hall to his waiting parents, his thoughts ran wild, seeking answers, posing questions.

“How are you feeling?” his parents asked.

“Better.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“I think I would like to go for a walk,” he said.

V – The Song of Creation

He walked through the forest. Up a winding mountain path. Something drew him forward, onward, upward. The earth was calling to him, but with new words. More important words. By the time he reached the summit, the song was fully formed. It was like his first song, but also…more.

The Boy smiled. 

“This is new,” he said.

The Boy raced down the mountain, through the forest all the way to his home, never slowing. He pulled open the front door and ran to the kitchen, where his parents were preparing dinner. 

“Listen!” he said, his voice a quiver of excitement. He hummed the new song. Possibility swirled in the air with every note.

“It is a beautiful melody,” said his mother. 

“It’s a new song,” said his father.

“Do you hear it?” The Boy asked. “Do you hear what the song is saying? I need to share it with my friends. I need to share it with everyone!”

They smiled, and The Boy practically skipped to his room.

Their smiles faded just a little. 

“I’m worried about him,” said The Mother. 

The Father nodded, then wrapped his wife in a hug. “We must be patient,” he said.

“But what are we waiting for?” she asked. 

“I wish I knew,” he answered.

The very next day, The Boy took to the streets, eager to share his new song. The song pushed him, prodded him, drew him, compelled him. 

“Listen,” he said to the crowds of people that swarmed the city sidewalks. “You must listen,” he said. But the people avoided him or ignored him. Some swore at him. A few offered curious looks before continuing on their way. One or two made fun of him. But no one stopped to listen. 

“Why won’t they listen?” he asked aloud. The only answer was the rattle and hum of the cars, the incessant buzz of the street lights, and the tremulous murmur of a hundred oblivious people hurrying somewhere and nowhere, cell phones glued to their ears.

VI – Live Your Life Unafraid

It began to rain. 

A car drove past, too close, drenching him with cold water from the puddled street. The Boy’s shoulders sagged, along with his hope. While others scurried past, he walked with slow deliberation.

He sat, finally, under an awning that didn’t quite shield him from the rain, the song as his only companion. He closed his eyes and felt every raindrop on his face, asking each one the same unanswered question. 

“Why don’t they listen?”

When he opened his eyes, someone was sitting next to him, an apron held over her head as a poor substitute for an umbrella. 

“How did you know I was lonely?” said the woman. 

The Waitress.

The Boy tilted his head in a moment of wonder. “You’re waiting for something.”

Then said, simply, “Listen.”

He began to hum his song, to the accompaniment of the rain. The Waitress looked puzzled at first, but then, slowly, her furrowed brow fell, and then, too, her tears. 

“I hear it,” she said. The hint of a smile reached her face. “Thank you,” she said. After a gentle squeeze of his hand, “I need to make a phone call.”

She heard it, thought The Boy.

VII – The Gathering

The waitress was only the first. Word got around: The Boy has a gift! No one knew quite what the gift was, but they came like a moth to a flame. A trickle of curiosity-seekers turned into a gathering. The gathering became a crowd. The crowd became a following.

Some came looking for answers. Some came looking for hope. Some came in search of healing. Or wisdom. Or truth.

The Boy shared his song with all who came. 

Some walked away feeling lighter. Some walked away with answers. Some with questions. Some merely shaking their heads.

Before long, The Boy had become a phenomenon.

And once the machine was set in motion, it would not stop.

A hundred thousand views. A million. Ten million.

T-shirts. TV interviews. Book deals. Sold-out arenas.

Everyone wanted a piece of The Boy. 

“This is not about me,” he said. But those words fell on deaf ears.

After a whirlwind nationwide tour, They Boy returned home to visit his parents. As he sat at the familiar kitchen table, he took his first deep breath in months. 

“How are you?” asked The Father.

There was no word for how he felt. 

“Stay for a while. Rest,” said The Mother.

The Boy sighed, smiled. He stood and hugged his parents. 

“The people need me,” he said. 

The crowds swelled, the demands on The Boy doubled. Then tripled. Someone took a candid photo of The Boy’s face while he was singing The Song. They put the image on billboards. Used it advertisements. Sold bottled water with his face on it. Shared it like a commodity, used it like currency. They even named an energy bar after him.

It was when Boy pulled into the parking lot for a sold-out stadium show when he finally realized he was done. He looked out the window of the limo and saw hundreds of fans waiting to get in. They were all wearing his face on their t-shirts. 

“What have I become?” he wondered aloud. His heart sank. “Turn around,” he said to his driver. “Take me to the forest.” He didn’t even know the man’s name.

“But you have a show…”

“Take me to the forest.”

When they arrived, he exited the limo with only the clothes on his back and a bottle of water. He stripped off the label, handed it to the driver.

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Carlos,” the driver answered. 

“Tell them I’m done, Carlos.” The Boy thanked Carlos and sent him away. 

The Boy walked and walked until he could walk no more. He inhaled the scent of dirt and water and flowers and fresh air, and slowly exhaled the weight of all he had become. Finally, when he could walk no more, he collapsed in a puddle of mud at the foot of the mountain. There, he opened his ears and listened.

But he heard nothing. 

Nothing at all. 

VIII – What Tomorrow Will Bring

The Boy walked in silence for days. Weeks. Months. His hair grew long, his beard-covered face turned gaunt. At first his disappearance became a bigger event than his celebrity had ever been. But it wasn’t long before The Boy faded into obscurity, replaced by any of a dozen new fads and fashions, transient saviors for the yearning masses.

He was walking along a dusty road, heading home, when he came across a homeless man camping out under a bridge. The dirty, foul-smelling man smiled a sad, crooked-teeth smile at him and held up a broken mirror for The Boy. 

“We might as well be brothers,” the homeless man said.

The Boy looked at his image in the broken mirror, then shook his head. “Twins,” he said. He sat beside the homeless man on an overturned milk crate. At first, the gurgle of the passing stream was all The Boy could hear. When the homeless man spoke again, his voice was like gravel.

“Lost my job, then my family, then my self respect,” the man said. “Still have my vanity, though,” he added, lifting the mirror. He laughed a pained laugh that turned into a hacking cough. “What’s your story?”

“Not much to tell, really,” said The Boy. 

The homeless man looked into The Boy’s eyes. 

“Wait…I know you,” he said, his eyes growing wide. “You’re The Boy – the one with the song.”

The Boy started to shake his head, then stopped himself. He nodded. 

“I was.”

The homeless man started coughing again. The Boy took the dirty water bottle he’d carried with him for months and lifted it up to the man.

“Not much left,” The Boy said. “But it’s fresh. Filled it this morning from a mountain stream.”

The homeless man took the water bottle, nodded his thanks, and drank. He handed the empty bottle back to The Boy, then cocked his head to one side and closed his eyes. 

Time slowed, then a smile came to the homeless man’s face. 

“I hear it,” he said.

The Song. 

“I hear it, too,” said The Boy, tears forming in his eyes.

“Of course you hear it,” said the homeless man, laughing again. “You’re singing it!”

And sure enough, he was.

IX – Set Free

His parents welcomed him with open arms.

“It’s so good to have you back,” said The Father.

“Are you well rested?” asked The Mother.

“I am,” said The Boy. “I’d like to stay a while, if I may.”

The father laid his calloused hand on The Boy’s shoulder. “Of course,” he said. 

The Boy returned to a simpler life. Spending time with family and friends. Welcoming strangers with kindness. Giving where he could give. Once in a while, someone recognized him, but there

were no more crowds. His face no longer peered at him from magazines and billboards and water bottles. That suited him just fine. He shared the song with any who needed to hear it. Little by little. One by one. 

While wandering downtown one day, The Boy came to the restaurant where it all began. He walked inside and looked for the waitress, but she was not there. Instead, he saw a different familiar face. The homeless man he had met at the bridge stood behind the counter at the grill. He was clean-shaven and proudly wearing a food-stained apron. He pointed a spatula toward The Boy and smiled his crooked-teeth smile. 

“You kept the beard,” he said. 

The Boy nodded and smiled back.

“You still singing?” the man asked.

The Boy’s smile grew wider. “I am,” he said.

“Me, too,” said the man. “Me, too.”