Tina was afraid to breathe, to move. This was by far the most Bette had ever said about her childhood, about her mother. Tina sat still, her hand moving slowly on Bette’s back in small circles and her other hand holding Bette’s hand tight. She waited to see if there was more.

Bette was looking past her wife’s shoulder, like she was watching something off in the distance. Her voice was calm but quiet and she was teary eyed.

“When things were good, the house sang with her. The rooms were brighter and even the sun seemed to peek in the windows more and make patches on the floor to give her a spotlight to dance in. She would put on red lipstick and dance and hold my hands as we went in circles. Sometimes she would put a little lipstick on me too, just a dab she would say. She even got Daddy dancing once or twice, oh how that made her laugh. She had an old record player. She…she would turn it up loud, tell me to close my eyes and listen to the colors the music made in my heart…she told me to draw it for her, later.” Bette closed her eyes then, her head tilting back slightly as she remembered.
Tina felt her eyes well up she was so engrossed in the story, the vision of a young, tenderhearted little girl who saw poetry all around her. A little girl who would spend the rest of her childhood hurting, her heart broken. A little girl who felt keenly, loved big and whose big heart had to be silenced when all it wanted to do was announce how it felt, so she could be heard. Her emotions, the hurt shared. Tina’s heart was caught in her throat, hurting for Bette. She suspected she knew what was coming…

Bette put her head on Tina’s shoulder. Her mouth close to her wife’s neck and Tina could feel her eyelashes as she blinked. Bette brought their hands up to her heart and held them there. She was silent for some time but then she spoke again, quieter this time.