Rock-a-Bye Curse
written by: Phyllis Souza
I am young, perhaps three or four years old. I feel secure on my mother’s lap as she rocks me toward an afternoon nap. Sunlight spills warm rays across my body. I hear the soft, comforting creak of the chair’s springs, almost whispering a lullaby.
My mother sings, “Rock-a-Bye-Baby.”
Float. Surrender. Surrender to who?
To the reader—
Close your eyes and travel back in time; rock with me. Can you feel the comfort? Hold on to this moment. Rock gently back and forth. Are you growing sleepy? Rest your head against the soft cushion of your mother’s breast. You can almost hear the steady beat of her heart. There is no heaviness. You feel as light as a feather. Float.
“You were cursed,” your mother says.
Startled, you sit up on your mother’s lap. You search her face and ask, “Cursed—what is cursed?”
“Don’t worry,” she laughs—almost haunting.
Surrender. She’s strong. You’re not. Confusion mounts.
Rock. Rock. Rock-a-Bye-baby.
Your mind tries to make sense of the word cursed. Like a crow’s peck, it pierces your skin. The mark remains, indelible as ink. No matter what your mother says, it’s too late—she can’t take it back.
Open your eyes and listen as she tells the story: Once upon a time, before your father married me, he had married a woman named Nellie.
Nellie? Who’s Nellie?
An ugly woman. Your father climbed out the window of their house six weeks after he married her and ran away. Then he married me, and you were born.
Do you feel the confusion mounting?
You’re squirming — want to get down from her lap? Don’t understand. More confusion. Take a breath. Rock. Once more, rest your head against your mother’s chest.
But wait. Here it is—the story’s crux.
She says you were six weeks old. I left you with your grandmother while I went to the store. Nellie stopped by the house. When she learned you were there, she asked to see you. Jealous, she cursed you.
Rock. Rock. Rock.
Your grandmother called a friend—an old woman from the Old Country, the Azores—who lifted the curse.
Rock-a-Bye-baby. Rock.
It is so hot that the sun has become an inferno. You want your doll. The rocker’s springs have stopped. You have arrived. It’s called hell. You can’t breathe.
Rock. Rock the Rock-a-Bye curse.
Epilogue:
The curse may not be supernatural. Even if the curse were lifted, the story would remain. The question is, why would a mother tell her child such a story?
NOTE:
Based on the Prompt – The Weight We Carry
- Under the Fireworks - July 4, 2026
- Rock-a-Bye Curse - June 12, 2026
- Beer and Stone - March 17, 2026
