Blissful Mornings - The First Time She Sang Alone

The sky was the color of wet ashes, soft and heavy with the hush of morning rain. The island

was quiet, not with sorrow—but with stillness. As if everything waited.

Sonia stood barefoot near the mango tree, the one that still bore fruit even during dry spells.

She clutched the edge of her skirt, the fabric worn from years of tending, and looked out

over the gathered faces. No one spoke. Not Maria. Not Salud. Not even her grandfather Uwis.

In the woven cradle beside her, wrapped in banana leaves and coconut cloth, lay the

smallest child of the village—a newborn who had never yet heard a lullaby.

The elder had fallen silent mid-prayer. And that silence had called her.

No one told her to sing. But Sonia stepped forward—her breath trembling, her chest aching

with a feeling too old for her young ribs. She looked down at the child and then closed her

eyes. And she sang.

The melody came from her mother’s voice, from the smoke of the husks, from the broth and

the river and the prayers stitched into the hems of old skirts. It rose soft and steady, like the

incense they used to bless the homes. She didn’t remember the words—she remembered

the feeling. It was the first time she sang alone and it would not be the last.

From the stillness of the moment, Sonia turned her gaze to the newborn beside her—not

her own, but her youngest brother, Daniel. He lay swaddled in softened cloth, his thumb

pressed gently to his mouth. There was no cry, no fuss, only the quiet rhythm of

longing—the kind of yearning only a child could hold with such grace.

Wennifreda, their mother, had gone with the other women to the forest edge to gather

abaca. The fine fibers would be braided into nets—tools of both labor and legacy—so the

feast could be prepared. A gift to the island, born from women’s hands and the heart of the

earth. So Sonia waited.

The sea whispered outside the cottage, pressing its breath against the woven walls. She

could hear the faint laughter of the women in the distance, mingled with the rustle of leaves.

Yet, within this sacred pause, time slowed.

Daniel stirred.

Not in distress, but in quiet ache—his stomach empty, his soul still too young to understand

absence. Sonia placed a gentle palm over his belly. And then… she opened her lips.

At first, it was only a hum, rising like sea foam from her chest. Then came the melody, fragile

as butterfly wings, shaped not by memory but by the moment.

The sea ebbs and flows,

The mothers hug the abaca trees,

And you, Daniel, wait for Mama patiently.

Here she comes with the gatherers,

About to cradle you,

Softly, gently,

Back to sustenance and safety.

Her voice wrapped around him like cloth—warm, fragrant, alive with trust. His fingers

relaxed. His breath deepened. His hunger, though not fed, was somehow filled.

And in that holy hush, Sonia felt something rise in her—a knowing.

That she, too, was a vessel.

That her voice could carry not just song, but care.

Not just melody, but manna.

She didn’t need to be told. She had become one of the gatherers.

Not of abaca, but of presence.

-Bliss Chains Authors