Aroha twists her dark hair into ringlets. She waits for the harshness to uncoil. To snake up, grim and remorseless into the moonlit darkness of her room. Sure enough, even as stars pierce the ebony pincushion outside, the clamor commences downstairs.
Mum’s sharp allegations quickly escalate into opinions, into screeching, regret-filled declarations. Dad’s responses are subtler. He smashes porcelain and punches the wall.
That’s when lyrical voices animate the night sky. The Pole Star beckons Aroha to listen intently as constellations and galaxies coalesce, calling to her in music. Colossal xylophones, they envelop her in pentatonic harmony.
They’ve been burning since time immemorial to keep the spartan universe bright and sprinkled with warmth.
â€ñIt’s not about the self,’ they say, â€ñit’s about the whole.’
She doesn’t understand, so they sing to her instead. They sing about red giants and supernovae, pulsars and white dwarves. They twinkle deep space secrets and unravel the mysteries of nebulous worlds that black holes yawn into existence.
Their voices becomes louder, inundating the vehemence of packed bags and slammed doors.
The cosmic orchestra is vociferous, ostentatious even. It overwhelms the engine’s roar, the resounding zip of the car racing angrily into the night.
Anguish will make way for a relentless silence tomorrow. It’ll claw into the fresh fracture and plug it in like hard concrete in a cracked sidewalk.
But for tonight, the universe is ablaze. The celestial concerto pulsates through its very fabric – and Aroha hums along.