World Beginnings

  There we were, huddled together in the dark winter night. Dr. Henson, the local physician, had come to our house to give Mama an injection for her splitting headache. He paused in the doorway, surveying the desperate scene before him. As he left, he told me to call the little hospital if we needed anything. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a pale glow over the five of us gathered in a semi-circle around Mama, lying motionless on the bed. I was the oldest, just ten, while the youngest was barely five. Between us were the twins and my brother. We sat in silence, watching her shallow breaths, each of us hoping she would wake up. Suddenly, Mama began to gurgle. We all jumped up, panic rising, and cried out, "Mama! Mama! Wake up!" Our small hands gripped her clothes and patted her face, desperate for a response. But there was only more gurgling, and still, she did not stir. We had just moved from Seattle, after my father died, to a small town in Mississippi....

A small girl sat quietly in the front row of the balcony, wearing her shabby Sunday best. Around her, her third-grade classmates poked each other and squirmed in their seats, but she gazed in amazement at the scene before her. Elaborate crimson velvet drapes covered the walls, and a plush red carpet led to rows of soft seats. Suddenly, the curtains rose to reveal an orchestra seated with their instruments. The women were dressed in black, and the men wore tuxedos. The girl was mesmerized. Suddenly, the conductor emerged from backstage to applause. He bowed to the audience of public school children and their frazzled teachers. Silently, he raised his baton, and the sound exploded as the musicians played “Flight of the Bumblebee.” The girl’s entire body pulsed with the magical buzzing sound. Seventy years later, she still remembers the name of that piece and the “1812 Overture.” It was the very first experience of beauty she had encountered in her seven years. That little girl was me. So...