For most of my life, I never gave much thought to sound. Of course everybody likes music, but I was always more of a passive consumer than an active listener. You certainly wouldn’t catch me singing along.

I appreciated the sounds of a bubbling stream or an early morning birdsong, but if you had asked me what my favorite sound was, I’d probably just give you a blank stare. That changed a few months ago.

My mother isn’t a great singer. Honestly, she’s not even good, objectively speaking. But if you were in my shoes, her singing voice would be your favorite sound, too.

It’s been almost a year since the accident. My parents were on their way to my house for Christmas dinner when their car slid on black ice and into an old oak tree on the side of the road. Dad died on impact. They said he didn’t suffer. Mom was slightly more fortunate, but she hasn’t been the same. By the time she was admitted to the hospital, she had suffered a massive stroke. She hasn’t been able to speak since.

Her neurologist, Dr. Broad, diagnosed her with a severe case of Broca’s Aphasia. Even in more mild cases, people with this condition have trouble uttering more than a few words at once. My mother is lucky if she can utter a single word.

Her cognition is fully intact. She can read and do math, and she knows what she wants to say, but if she tries to verbalize it or put it to paper, the words just won’t come out.

About six months ago, I was driving her home from one of her weekly neurology appointments when her favorite song came on the radio: “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel. When the chorus started, she began to sing along, hardly missing a single word. Within seconds, I was crying so hard I had to pull over to the side of the road. Tears were streaming down her face as she smiled at me and carried on with the song. As soon as it was over, I turned my car around and drove right back to the doctor’s office.

Apparently, this isn’t terribly uncommon. Dr. Broad explained to us that language processing is primarily handled by the brain’s left hemisphere, while musical output and other forms of creative expression are mostly right-brain tasks. Still, he was flabbergasted when we replayed the song and my mother sang along fluently.

Two weeks later, my mother sang Happy Birthday to me. When she got to “Happy birthday dear Emily,” I wept again. It was the first time I had heard her say my name since last Christmas.

As the months went on, we started incorporating musical therapy into her recovery. Dr. Broad and his treatment staff thought that, if we were lucky, this might stimulate the left side of her brain and allow her to regain some of her lost speech function.

Eventually, my mother began making up her own songs to express what she was thinking or feeling. They were usually set to the tune of old nursery rhymes or lullabies, and they always rhymed.

She had been staying with me ever since the accident. Desperate to regain some sense of self-reliance, she expressed through song her desire to return home and stop burdening me with her care. I reassured her that she had never been a burden, but reluctantly agreed to move her back to the home where she had been living with my father since before I was born.

Every night since moving out, she would call to sing me a song.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star

I hope you know how loved you are

You’ve always been my brightest light

Sweet dreams my dear, sleep well, good night

“Good night, Mommy. I love you,” I’d say.

She still wasn’t capable of saying goodbye most of the time, but she always refused to hang up first. I would wait until I heard her contented sigh, signaling that it was okay for me to end the call.

Two nights ago, I went to bed without a call from my mother. I lied there in worry for over an hour before I picked up the phone to dial her myself. The line rang a few times before her answering machine picked up. I left a quick message, telling her that I loved her and that I hoped she was alright. Despite my concern, my exhaustion got the better of me as I drifted off to sleep shortly thereafter.

Three hours later, the ringing of my phone startled me awake. Sleep-deprived and weary, I could barely read the words on the screen: “Mom calling.”

I practically leapt out of bed to answer the call. “Mom,” I said, trying not to sound too fearful. “Is everything okay?”

There’s someone here who isn’t me

There’s someone here who shouldn’t be

Across my entire body, my hairs stood on end. “What’s going on, Mom? Who’s there?”

He said that he’s a friend of Dad

I think he lies, he’s someone bad

I rushed out of my bedroom and grabbed my coat from the hall closet. “Stay where you are and I’ll call the police. I’m on my way.”

I frantically dialed 911 as I started my car and peeled out of the driveway. I explained the situation and my mother’s condition to the dispatcher. The last thing I needed was for the police to show up in the middle of the night and think that she was crazy or strung out.

By the time I had completed the fifteen-minute drive to her house, the police were already there performing a thorough search of the property.

“If anyone was here, he’s gone now,” one officer said to my mother and me as we stood anxiously by the curb.

“You’re sure?” I asked. “You checked the attic, the basement… everywhere?”

“Nothing,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You’re safe.”

Although he blends in with the air

That doesn’t mean he isn’t there

Noticing the officer stifle a laugh, I shot him a dirty look. As my mother walked toward her front door, he pulled me aside. “You might want to get her checked out,” he said.

“It’s under control. Thanks for your concern.” Without another word, I followed my mother inside and took a seat next to her on the couch. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:16 in the morning. My body was still in fight-or-flight mode, but I couldn’t fight my exhaustion much longer.

“Mom,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll sleep right here.”

She shook her head no and gestured to the walls around us, then placed her hands over her heart to indicate that she was safe. After a very one-sided conversation in which I insisted on staying the night, she finally retreated to her bedroom. I laid my head on a throw pillow and drifted off with ease, unnerved by the absolute silence of the house.

The rest of the night went by without incident, at least as far as I could tell. I was awakened at sunrise by my mother’s sing-songy voice emanating from the kitchen.

At night he paces down my halls

For now, he’ll sleep within the walls

I raised myself up and stretched my back, realizing that sleeping on the couch hadn’t done my joints any favors. Looking at my mother, I was beginning to wonder whether the stroke had affected her more than we had previously thought.

I don’t know what he’s waiting for

I wish he’d walk right out the door

I entered the kitchen and gave my mom a big hug. “Get any sleep?” I asked. Smiling, she shook her head before gesturing to the breakfast that she had laid out on the kitchen table.

We said nothing as we ate, enjoying each other’s company. I was admittedly relieved that the house was now illuminated in the glow of the morning sun. The silence that surrounded us finally felt peaceful again.

I kissed her on the cheek and thanked her for breakfast, assuring her that I would return after work to spend the night with her once more. She didn’t argue with me this time. She was a strong woman - desperate to convey a lack of fear - but I could tell she was still worried.

I didn’t get much done at work. I found myself taking breaks every hour, sometimes more frequently than that, to call my mother and check on her. If she wasn’t feeling like her usual self, you wouldn’t know it by the songs she sang.

By the time I returned to her house, it had already been dark out for over an hour. She stood on her front porch as I pulled into her driveway, waving enthusiastically with both hands. I wondered if she missed the times when we were living together.

I greeted her with a hug and asked how her day had been.

Not feeling well, but glad you’re here

Thank you for being you, my dear

Our evening was relaxing and uneventful. I cooked spaghetti for us both, and she expressed through song how much she loved it. I knew it wasn’t half as good as hers. After dinner, we watched a few episodes of her favorite old sitcom, laughing and cuddling with each other on the couch as if I were a little kid again. At one point, she grabbed the remote to mute the television and stared into my eyes.

Tears welled in her eyes as she sang her usual nighttime lullaby to me. She didn’t smile throughout the song, as she usually did. After yet another long embrace, she retired to her bedroom and closed the door. I made myself as comfortable as I could on the couch, and just as I began to doze off, I heard my mother’s voice.

He’s getting closer every night

You can almost see him, but not quite

I slept intermittently for the next few hours, dreaming of a tall man in dark clothes who wandered the halls of my childhood home. Eventually, I was awakened not by the sound of my mother’s voice, but by the opening and closing of her bedroom door. Dragging myself off of the couch and making my way down the hall, I felt a chill in the air. She must have gotten up to open a window, I thought, because the hall was noticeably colder than the living room.

“Mom?” I called out, to no response. I turned the knob of her bedroom door to find it locked. For some reason, I wasn’t panicking.

I knocked on the door and called out to her a few more times. “Do you want me to call someone?”

Just as I was preparing to turn and walk away from the door, I heard her. Quietly, in almost a whisper, she was singing. I couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t sound afraid. Shrugging my shoulders, I returned to the couch and back to sleep.

My mother didn’t wake up this morning.

By the time I awoke, it was clear that the sun had risen hours ago. Immediately, I feared the worst. She never slept much past dawn. I rose to my feet without even checking the time and raced down the hall.

The door to her bedroom was now unlocked. I found her lying in her bed, her arms crossed over her chest as if she had posed for her own funeral. I cried over her body for a while, and though I hated the sound of my own voice, I figured it was finally my turn to sing.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star

I hope you know how loved you are

You’ve always been my brightest light

Sweet dreams my dear, sleep well, good night

Wiping the tears from my face, I stood from her bed and took one last look at her. She had never looked so beautiful. She wore the faintest hint of a smile. I had no reason to doubt that she died peacefully.

I returned to the living room and grabbed my cell phone to call someone. Although it was plugged into its charger, it had been powered off. I didn’t remember doing that.

As I turned it on, I immediately received a notification: “two new voicemails.”

The first message was from Dr. Broad. “Hi Emily, can you give our office a call this morning? We noticed something in your mother’s latest scans. Please call back as soon as you can.”

The second message was from my mother.

He’s not as bad as he first seems

He said he saw you in your dreams

He really wants to meet you too

I told him where he could find you

Next time you look up at the moon

Just know you’ll see me very soon

You've always been my brightest light

Sweet dreams my dear, sleep well, good night