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When Gohan was an infant, he slept in a crib in a separate room adjacent to theirs, where his wails would filter through the wall and wake them during all hours of the night. Between the two new parents, it was usually Chi-Chi who had to pacify the infant with her milk, singing him a lullaby as he clung to breast.
Mommy is the best in the world
With a mom you have the most valuable treasure
Jump into your mom’s heart
And you will find happiness!
Mommy is the best in the world
Without your mom, you are like a blade of grass
Away from your mom’s heart
Where will you find happiness?
Her second son did not sleep in a crib in his own room. He slept on the spot that her late husband used to rest on, close to her so that when he awoke with a whine or a wail, which he did less frequently than Gohan had but also somehow louder, momma would be right there.
She’d be there to sing him the same lullaby she sung to Gohan, grumpy and exhausted yet thrilled for the miracle that he was.
.
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Like his brother before him, as he grew older, she sang to him less, not because she didn't want to, but because he no longer needed her song to sleep.
But sometimes when she spotted her youngest splayed out on the couch, his round cherubic face streaked with drool, reminding her so much of his father, she lifted him into her toned arms and carried him into his bedroom, humming that same timeless lullaby.
Years went by until one day her Goku, the father of her two beloved sons, returned to them, and she sang again. A different song this time, but one just as soothing and sweet, and one reserved just for her husband.
In time she sang to her grandchild the lullaby she once sang to her father, her voice raspier and charmed with years, like the crinkled pages of a beloved book.
.
.
She sings until the day comes when her voice can’t go beyond a croaking whisper, until her bones can’t lift anything but her own paper-light skin.
As her youngest cradles her frail, failing body, he sings to her the loving verses she etched into his heart. The words he knows so well crack around the edges and flow thickly out his tongue, struggling the most as he sings, “without you mommy, I am like a blade of grass.”
Her eldest son sits solemnly by her side, gently holding her hand as he continously wipes away fog from his glasses, meanwhile her husband tells her everything he’s ever felt for her with silent words that fill her mind.
Faces unmarred by their true years. Faces she knows and loves more than she can put in a song.
As the last note drifts into the air, so does her soul, and when she looks down she sees there is a smile on her wrinkled lips.
She sends them each one last kiss, gentle as a breeze skittering across cheekbones, and then she waits for them.