Bespoke
by Soramimi Hanarejima
When night became a vast sea, I was reluctant to cross in the ship of sleep. Mom rode buses and trains all over the city to gather what she needed to make the best lullabies—the most mesmerizing melodies and loveliest lyrics—pieces I watched her assemble at the kitchen table in the kind of meditative trance she’d go into while kneading bread dough, her soft gaze settled on the fluid movement of her hands.
Later, in the dark of my room, she tucked me into bed, then filled the air with a soothing song—a new one every night because I resisted the soporific effects of each exquisite lullaby so beautiful I wanted to keep listening, to stay ensconced in the euphoria of that euphonic fairytale microcosm for as long as it would last before finally fading away.
After a week of this, Mom was sure that the lullabies were worsening my “sleep hesitancy,” and she told me that if they didn’t start working, she would give the lullabies to someone who needed them. So I pretended to fall asleep—slowly, with eyelids turning gradually droopy, buying me time to hear as much as possible and make a memory I could cling to after she left, when it would be just me lingering on the quiet shore of today with this talisman for the necessary journey ahead, into that empty expanse punctuated by the islands of dreams.
About the Author:
Soramimi Hanarejima is the author of A Psychography of Modest Intimacies. Soramimi’s recent work appears in West Branch, Lost Balloon, and Cetera Magazine.