Song and dance
F was song and dance, pen and the page, lyric and tune. She was conductor of her own destiny, herself in the words. Poetry as songs without homes. Orphans that she had to save. Songs never ended but rather were reused, covered by the offspring as they laid the original to rest.
She sang to those who were mute. Her mother was without song. Her blood without wine. Her skin without a glow. At least she was after bearing children. As if she gave her last breath that day when she sang the last lullaby Florence would hear from her mouth. Florence knew what songs her mother liked and made sure to save them for her when she requested them.
It was song that would save her mother's life. It was song that made Florence leave.
The story is told without time. The boundaries of the song are beyond our comprehension. The songs we know today were likely sung in other decades, by other generations, on other radios. Perhaps there's a reason some of the early radios were made from crystal (cheesey?). Too far probably. Currently listening to Don't stop believin' by Journey.