An Angel and a Keyboard
The psych ward is more than a harsh, white, dehumanizing space in some psychological thriller. It is a place that stores life. And with life, beauty.
This girl I met at the psych ward—we’ll pretend her name is Angel. She is anxious and soft and sweet to talk to. We discuss bands and movies, books we love, and friends we don’t see.
The others here are older, ranging from thirty to something like ninety. We’re hardly in our twenties. Today at the end of a meeting, she asks the tech to open the back room. It’s the one with the keyboard.
All of us girls, we keep to ourselves. The men are always hogging the TV and watching sports.
We make fun of them, we sit with each other, we get bored. But today Angel got access to a group room, and she’s promised us she’ll sing.
The ladies shuffle in. She only knows one song, “The House of the Rising Sun.” She pushes thick and gentle hair behind her ears. Her hair is strawberry pink, and the dye fades at the ends.
She has a small smile and a slight lisp. Notes are scribbled inside an old composition notebook. She props it up on the keyboard. Places pale hands on the keys.
Her voice is quiet for hardly a moment. It rises quickly, like a sun inside a time-lapse. She nearly yells. This gorgeous belt is let loose like a flock of birds. The skin of her face crinkles as she leans into the high notes.
She sings like tears can pour. Like hearts can ache.
There is a fire in her eyes. In her lashes.
We sit around, watching.
The lady beside me struggles to speak at all, except to apologize and mutter. Now, her eyes are wide. Now, her eyes are spilling. “Oh, it’s beautiful—sorry.” Over and over, “it’s beautiful—sorry.”
An elderly woman sits across from me. She is fragile, a tender sort of thing. The day before she spent in silence, save quiet tears spent on a sofa.
Now, she closes her eyes. Smiles, taps her foot, and nods.
She sings like tears can pour. Like hearts can ache.
The woman to my right is an alcoholic. She is small and blond. Wears weary eyes and weathered skin. She mouths the words to the song. This is one of her favorites.
When Angel finishes, we quickly ask for more. She says this is all she knows.
“We don’t care! Go again.”
I feel like a kid on Christmas. Like we haven’t yet had breakfast and I’m sneaking another chocolate. “It won’t spoil the meal, mom—promise.”
She sits back down and starts as before. Soft, then loud.
After she’s done, her face is flushed. She looks around, beaming. She bounces with nervous excitement. We applaud and we applaud and three of the women give her hugs.
“You should go on America’s Got Talent!” one of the ladies says. “You all missed out on a concert,” another tells anyone who’ll listen.
We were children on Christmas inside that psych ward backroom. A room with a keyboard and an angel.
Here & Now: Girls Write Now 2024 Anthology
Do not read this book, unless you want to know what real humans are thinking. Taking poetic license to express things in ways that make AI fear it will be replaced by humans, the stories in these pages reflect the here and now: a collective urgency as the pandemic recedes, the world overheats, wars overwhelm, and the national discourse is conducted in a language far from love. In these pieces, cooking unites families, supermarkets become places of connection and adventure, neighbors evolve into mermaids as the sea levels rise, and every month nails are trimmed to cut down memory. The smallest gifts in life become impossible blessings of gratitude. There is a sense of battle with the norms and an understanding that things are not right, but they will be. This anthology is evidence of a future worth fighting for in which the long tradition of building community through the written word is upheld during the highs, lows, and everything in between.
Process
Writing this piece has been a way for me to shed light on an issue that can be taboo within today’s culture. As a young woman struggling with mental illness, I have had my fair share of hospitalizations. The idea of the psych ward is often perceived as shocking, uncomfortable, and/or mysterious. It has been healing for me to demonstrate the deeply human nature of mental health issues. So often, mental illness is seen as something that makes a person “other”. At the end of the day, our struggles as human beings are what bring us together. I hope this piece shows how even in the midst of suffering, there is good.
Maya Collins
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Maya Collins
Maya Collins is a passionate writer, artist, and leader in her community. She is currently a senior in high school, and especially loves writing poetry. Travel is a big part of her life, and she loves to explore her multicultural experiences within her work. Every aspect of her work as a writer and an artist is driven by a desire to both create space for others, and likewise honor her personal life experience. Above all else, she is a lover of boba :)
