Lullaby

After the divorce, Wray had kept the child. In court, the alcoholic mother was not trusted with its care. Wanting to find a job quickly to support the needy baby, he took on the career of a pianist in a Broadway orchestra.
The light was dim backstage after the show. In a private room away from the rowdy actors, Wray rocked the baby back and forth, then carefully let it lie in a makeshift bed of blankets. Rosette was her name, a small and fragile flower that she was. Suddenly, her pink lips curved downwards and her closed-eyed face tightened. A subtle whimper was heard, and proceeded to build to loud cries. Undoubtedly, she needed a mother with more of a maternal instinct than he had. God only knew where Wray could find one.
Again, he took his infant in his tired arms, attempting to calm her, all in vain. The bawling went on for some time. As a last resort, he decided to feed her. Yet, when she was finished with the bottle, she continued her sobbing. In a matter of desperation, hope, and love, he set her back down on the blankets. The volume of the cries amplified. He winced as he walked the short, but seemingly long, trip to the piano. He sat down on the old oak bench. It creaked under his weight as he flipped through the songs he knew by heart in his mind. Finally, he chose. The muscles in Rosette’s face loosened as she was calmed, and a wave of peace came over her tiny body, all as the ivory keys played a soothing lullaby.