Chimes. Gentle chimes roll in waves from the edges of a world confined to blackness. Lilting and harmonious, the music drifts through the bars surrounding me, covering me and comforting me and lifting my face upwards like it did before in a half-remembered dream.
Coloured birds are flying brightly in the dark above, moving in graceful circles. Round and round they soar, silent and beautiful in their simple outlines.
And though their path is marked and unchanging, predestined and cyclical, their flight is one of possibility and potential. Because every night, no matter how high I stretch my arms, they dance beyond my reach.
They are infinite.
The other day I read that all memories of a time before the age of five are constructed. Fiction. Perhaps my parents told me about the musical mobile, or I remember it hanging above the cot of one of my younger siblings. Perhaps it was a dream. All I know is this: when I hear that lullaby, I can see soft shapes gliding above me. I can feel a burgeoning sense of wonder that whispers of things half-understood, hazy and hopeful. And I know that somewhere deep down, real or imagined, that child filled with awe is still reaching up towards something she’ll never fully comprehend.