The Woman Who Sings

A woman lives above us. Every morning at seven, she sings.

She is not a good singer. My brother puts a pillow on his head. My mother laughs.

I like it. I know all her songs now.

One week, there is no singing. The mornings are very quiet.

My mother knocks on her door. Nobody answers.

We ask the neighbours. She is in hospital, they say. Her leg is broken.

My mother cooks soup. I carry it upstairs.

Ten days later, the woman comes home.

The next morning at seven, she sings again. My brother takes his pillow.

But he is smiling.