Most of the babies grew up to marry each other.

There was an odd number of male infants that year. The remaining one was encouraged to marry the blind girl, who was only six years his senior. This was considered by all parties to be ideal—or as close to it as could be hoped. If the couple themselves harbored any complaints, they remained silent about them. Their wedding was a dry-eyed affair.

What made people more uneasy was the pairing of the deaf girl with her former teacher. But her options were limited, and at least they understood each other.

I found the crippled boy lying by the riverbank, his walking stick broken beside him. I helped him to his feet; we stood in silence for a few seconds, holding hands. I asked him what had happened. Why had everyone left, all at once, in a hurry.

“You didn’t hear it.” He seemed so sad, for himself and for me.

I’d turned sixteen but three days earlier. I was older than my closest friends by a mere matter of weeks.

And thus I became the youngest adult, and he the oldest child, though he was only twelve. The deaf girl and the blind girl were nine and seven, respectively.

The blind girl was nearby. Disoriented, but surprisingly calm.

The three of us traveled home together. I stood between them, holding one hand each, for I could both easily walk and see. We barely spoke.

The deaf girl was as confused as the adults. The babies could not yet walk, and thus were hysterical. Kicking their legs furiously as their parents held them.

It took years for the population to return to near normal, much longer for the trauma to dissipate. 

The crippled boy and I have been married for nearly fifty years. We’re happy enough, it seems. Our grandchildren know the legend well, but that’s all it is to them. All our grandchildren. All of them.

The babies—most of whom are still living— don’t remember that day at all. Not when they’re awake, at least. I envy them. 

The blind girl died a year ago. 

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt grief so intense.

The deaf girl, long since widowed, often comes to our cottage. She plays the song that my husband and the blind girl taught her.

“Did I get it right? Am I playing it correctly?” she always asks, in her strange tinny voice.

I tell her the truth: I can’t tell, for how could I? But her playing sounds lovely. What else matters, in the end.

The crippled boy just says, “It’s good enough.”

He is, of course, the only one that knows. That remembers.

***

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, paintings, drawings and photographs have been published both online and in print. Publications include Nomad’s Choir Poetry Journal, The Word’s Faire, Littoral Magazine, Spinozablue, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macrame Literary Journal, Route 7 Review, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Assignment Literary Magazine, Superpresent, Jelly Squid, redrosethorns, Flash Frog, Clockwise Cat, Ranger Magazine, and Troublemaker Firestarter.  @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.