Ladybugs

She traced the droplets with her finger, imagined them on her skin. She imagined them like ladybugs perching on the flesh of her fingertips, on the hardness of her nails, dripping like falling ladybugs from the tips of her fingers and onto the floor. If they were ladybugs they would catch the air before they hit, and be aloft, and bring themselves to secret spaces, up and away, to do secret ladybug things with the other escaped raindrop bugs. If they were droplets they would slip and splash onto the wood floor; if there were enough they would coalesce into a puddle, into a river, and run across the floor and under the couch. The raindrops pattered against the other side of the glass, and she knew they were going to do neither. They were going to continue hitting the glass, and she was going to continue to stay dry and warm on the other side. It was dark outside, the same type of dark she felt when she hid under the covers, the same type of dark she knew when her mother hugged her tightly to her breast. She traced the droplets with her finger and smiled, knowing this rain was here just for her.

She slid off of the bench and walked over to the toy bin, but none of the shiny plastic baubles grabbed her attention. Her mother was in the other room, and she could hear her voice wafting in, muted, as she talked on the phone. Her mother’s voice felt like a hug, even when it was not directed at her. The ladybug rain drops and the deep grey clouds and her mother murmuring in the distance made her feel very warm, like a chocolate chip cookie. Her mother’s guitar sat in its stand next to the toy bin’s plastic bobbles. She walked up to it slowly, aware of the heavy presence it had in the space. The guitar commanded respect, the way it sat regally in its stand. She had spent many nights watching her mother murmur over the guitar, pluck strings slowly and sing softly in her chocolate chip cookie voice. The girl sat solemnly in front of it and wondered how to revere it the way her mother knew how. The guitar sat, staring at her with its shining face, and did not answer her. She took a deep breath and knew the only way to bring the guitar what it wanted was to pluck its strings. Her mother had explained to her how guitars work. How they make music by being plucked or strummed. How the music changes based on the different ways you caress its neck. How you have to clean it gently to keep it unburdened and free to produce beauty. How sometimes you have to replace the strings, but it is like getting a haircut or like your baby teeth falling out, it was necessary and not a violation. She tried to decide which string was the best one to pluck to show reverence. She remembered the lessons her mother had taught her about the thickness of the strings, and how the thicker ones produced the deep notes, and the thinner ones produced the high notes. She decided the deepest note was the best because it was like all of the notes put together. She took another deep breath and leaned forward, aiming her ladybug fingers for the largest string. As she plucked it she felt the room vibrate with deep resonance. The guitar sang, solemnly, richly. The note hung in the air like a hummingbird, softly taking up space. It slowly died away, and the girl wondered if that was enough to show reverence to the guitar. The instrument sat still, and stared at her with its shining face, and did not answer. The girl wondered if she had picked the wrong note. She wondered if really, the lightest note would have been the best, because it was the most pure, the most unburdened note. She decided that the guitar would want her to do it. So with one more deep breath she leaned forward and plucked at the thinnest string. It sang, brightly, like sunshine, and for a moment the girl was worried that she had scared away her clouds and that the rain would dry up and leave her, because of how bright the note had been. She decided that she had better stop before the clouds changed their mind.

She clamored her way back up onto the bench by the window and started furtively outside. The ladybug rain drops were still pattering the windows, and the clouds looked as dark and enveloping as they had before she left, so she told herself she hadn’t done any irreparable damage, and so resumed her raindrop watch. She traced them with her fingers, imagining that they were race cars she was betting on, watching as they took on collision courses with each other, merged, or fell apart. She watched as some of the race cars made it to the bottom of the window, and others got derailed. If these were race cars on her fingers, they would not fall at all, but would turn around when they got to the ends of her finger tips and would race back up her arms and across her shoulders, doing laps around her belly button and down her legs. If the raindrops were little race cars they would stop every so often and tiny little people would get out of them and wave at her, their own massive race course. Little pit crews would be set up to change tires and add fuel. The finish line, she decided, would be her left ankle. If the raindrops were race cars, some of them would make it, but others would fall off, or get stuck, or go the wrong way. Others would join up to form mega-cars that drove faster than the others. And still others would just buzz along the way a race car should, down and down and down, until it reached the finish line and a little tiny driver won happily. The little tiny driver on her left ankle would go home to his little tiny wife that night holding a little tiny big trophy, and would have great stories to tell, about how his race track changed from its usual window to this strange and bumpy course over the body of a massive little girl. His wife would be so proud of him for navigating this, and she would brag about him to all of her little tiny friends. If the raindrops were race cars, she would be a strange mountain terrain. But the raindrops continued to patter against the other side of the glass, and she knew she was not a strange mountain terrain. She was just a little girl on the other side of the glass, using her fingertips to trace rain that she knew was here just for her.