like a father to impress (like a mother’s mourning dress)
[quinn’s and rachel’s headcanons from frannie’s and hiram’s povs, respectively. because i promised i would as a follow up to “mother please be proud (father be forgiving)”. title from sufjan stevens. i mention brett dennen so listen to "so far from me" if you’d like. trigger warning.]
like a father to impress (like a mother’s mourning dress)
that secret that we know, that we don’t know how to tell
i’m in love with your honour, i’m in love with your cheeks
what’s that noise up the stairs, babe?
is that christmas morning creaks?
(and i know it well)
—bon iver, “blood bank”
one. i think back to when my brother and my sister slept in an unlocked place, the only time I feel safe
When you come home from the first day of kindergarten, your mother tells you, “You’re going to have a new baby sister.”
You do your best to understand what that means, but sometimes you’re not so sure. Your mother’s belly begins to grow and stretch and swell, and you imagine a whole world in there, playgrounds and stuffed animals and bathtubs full of bubbles for your new little sister to play with.
Sometimes you tell her stories—ones that you’ve heard or are learning to read, or ones that you make up.
Your mother tells you one night that the new baby’s name is Lucy. You feel her tiny little feet kick against your small hand.
That’s the first time you sing to her, a song that your dad sometimes plays in the car, “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles.
When Lucy’s born, two weeks early at the end of May, and you hold her for the first time, you sing to her then, too. She wraps her fingers around one of yours and you support her floppy head carefully, like your mother tells you to.
Lucy doesn’t cry at all.
That night is the first time you paint her a picture. It’s of a rainbow, because they’re the prettiest things you know how to paint.
When you’re eight and Lucy’s three, you’re both busy playing with your dollhouse one evening after dinner when she accidentally trips over a tiny red car and breaks one of the angel figurines your grandmother bought you ever birthday.
Your father comes up the stairs—lumbering, a jaberwocky—and sees the ceramic on the floor.
He starts yelling and Lucy’s big hazel eyes well up and her lower lip starts to quiver, and you say, “It was my fault, Daddy. I knocked it over.”
Lucy looks at you, confused, but you only shake your head. Your father keeps yelling and ushers you into his office. He takes off his belt and tells you to bend over, and he tells you to grab your ankles.
He hits you in the back of the thighs three times, and it stings so badly you want to never stand up again.
You wait until he leaves to curl up into a ball and sob, and you limp to bed that night and have nightmares.
But it didn’t happen to Lucy, at least this once, and when she hands you a scribbled drawing the next day and sings you the ABCs about fifty times, you’re sure it was worth it, even if it takes weeks for the welts to go away.
You come home from art club one Saturday when you’re ten and find Lucy lying in a heap in your father’s office. There are six welts along the back of her legs.
Your mother is cooking dinner and your father is outside, mowing the lawn.
You pick Lucy up as gently as you can, and she sniffles a little but—if the dried snot around her nose is any indication—she’s been done crying for a while, and you take her and put her down on your bed.
You rub her back patiently and wait for her to fall asleep, because when it happens, you know it’s exhausting.
She does, finally, and you don’t ever bother asking what earned her that many blows, because by now you’ve figured out that it’s not really important, because the welts look the same no matter what.
When you’re twelve, you realize that you’re beautiful. It’s because the cutest boy in all of school—and he’s in eighth grade—asks you if you can go see a movie with him, and that’s when you look at pictures in magazines one day as you sneak away from your mother at the grocery store.
You’re not as old as the women in them, but it’s not hard to see that you look like that, that you have the same cheekbones and nose and eyes. Your hair is long and blond, and you’re thin because you run track and play soccer.
Lucy tugs on your hand and you put down the magazine, recoiling as if it’s actually on fire, and Lucy says, “Mom says we’re done.”
She doesn’t look like you, not really, and she doesn’t look like the women in the magazines.
“What were you looking at in there?” she asks.
She’s still holding your hand as you walk towards your mother, so you say, “Nothing.”
You start high school, and that’s when you realize that you’re talented. Really, really talented, and then art becomes Pontius Pilate and Barabus and the entire crowd, because it’s something that might save you from being crucified.
So you draw all the time. You learn to stay over at friends’ houses more often than not. You learn how to get boys to do almost anything for you, because you’re beautiful and you’re nice and you’re smart. You’re young and you’re selfish because you can’t go back there. Because you can’t bear to go home when Lucy’s there, so sad all the time, lost in a world you never imagined.
So you learn how to sacrifice others, as Pilate and Barabus but mostly the crowd, because you know—“Frannie, are you sure you want to?” and his hands waver over the waistband of your underwear and it’s the first boy you love, so you say, “Yes,” because you do—you certainly don’t deserve penance.
Your parents are proud when you get into all of the universities you apply to. You choose to go to Stanford, because it is literally the furthest thing away from Fairbrook, Ohio.
The bay area is different because the changes in the weather don’t make people angry. Instead they embrace them, and they go outside and dance in the rain as often as the sun.
Lucy gets texting when she goes into eighth grade and you talk to her every day. She is not happy, so you don’t ask her any real questions.
Instead she tells you about characters and you tell her about your roommate and your classes and sushi and French food, and she never, ever tells you about your parents.
Granted, you never do ask.
You go back home for a few weeks when you’re nineteen. Lucy is not there.
Quinn is, though, and when you look at her you’re looking in a mirror now, only this is a mirror shattered by Crucify him! Crucify him! and you understand Barabus perfectly.
It does not feel good, and when you leave you sit at the airport and sob when you change her name in your phone.
You paint Lucy’s eyes as often as you can, although you don’t ever get the hazel quite right.
Whenever you see Quinn, though—she gets a MySpace page and you watch evolution you were always told to discredit—you begin to be able to remember that she’s the same little girl who grew up falling asleep while you sang to her, and that she’s the same little girl who believed in fairies and Narnia, who never once let you convince her that magic didn’t exist, because Quinn’s eyes never once change.
You meet Robert when you’re twenty. He’s a year older and he’s funny and handsome, tall with brown hair and blue eyes, glasses and patterned sweaters. He’s from Boston, and you meet him in a political film class you take that fall on a whim.
You ask him out to coffee, and he doesn’t seem at all put-off by the notion that you asked him first. He knows about feminism and women’s rights and he works with the LGBTQ community on campus, and he’s Pre-Law.
He takes you on a date to Golden Gate Park, and he tells you that you’re beautiful but that your mind and your hands and everything you see when you make worlds on canvas are more important than that, and the first time he kisses you, you forget the sound of nails being driven through hands and feet because of you—you’re never there to see it happen, but you know the account anyway—and you know that for your entire life all you’ve really wanted is for someone to make the sound go away.
You kiss him in the chilly fog from the bay, and it’s very, very quiet.
Quinn calls you one night, as you’re stretched out, naked, on Robert’s bed while he makes tea. When you answer, she’s crying, and she says, “I’m pregnant, and Dad just kicked me out, and I’m—”
You really, desperately try not to hear the roar in your ears, but you’re safe now.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, but you offer no sacrifice.
You’re not even sure if you still have any to give.
You’ve been with Robert for a year—you’re twenty-one now—and his eyes are gentle one day when he skims his fingers over one of the scars on your lower back from when your father was particularly angry or frustrated and used the end of the belt with the buckle.
You tell him—and you’re a fantastic mess, mascara running down your cheeks, snot salty as it trickles over your top lip—about what your father did to you.
Robert cries, too, and he apologizes for gender roles and societal practices within religion and the pressure of a capitalistic system and antiquated views of discipline, and it’s just so right and wonderful and Robert that you shake your head with a little smile.
“I saved myself,” you say.
He beams, wipes his tears. “You did.”
For the first time, you think that maybe it has nothing to do with Pilate and Barabus at all.
You watch Quinn on Facebook. Sometimes there are videos of her performing in Glee Club—which, from your text conversations, you know she loves—and she’s immensely talented. She’s also smart—and she has never stopped loving stories—and she’s striking.
Then the summer when you’re twenty-two, the summer where you’re set to go to Paris and paint while Robert does some work with a law firm there, Quinn deactivates her Facebook.
You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, and when you hear soldiers jeering and gambling and offering up a vinegar-soaked sponge, you blame it on the cabin pressure in the airplane, your ears popping with every breath.
You cut your hair and make love to Robert on the left bank and Paris is wonderful. You go to grad school at California College of the Arts, right in San Francisco. Quinn calls you in September and tells you that she’s depressed, that she’s really, really struggling.
You say, “I love you, and I think you’re going to do such amazing things. It’s not a bad thing to ask for help, Quinn.”
She takes a few deep breaths—she’s been crying—and then sniffles a soft, “You’re right,” before saying, “I love you too, Fran.”
You call your mother just seconds afterward.
You yell at her and you cry, and you tell her that she should have noticed how sad and messed up Quinn was.
Your mother says, “You’re not here, Frances.”
You hear only Father, forgive them, and you whisper, “I know.”
Your mother calls you one morning when you’re in your studio. Robert is kissing your neck and you answer only because you’re still worried about Quinn—although you’ve been talking and texting and Skyping and she seems to be doing much better, and you both cheered and screamed when she tells you she got into Yale—and then your mother is crying.
“Quinn is—Quinn was—”
“I’m coming,” you say, and Robert looks at you after you hang up.
The crown of thorns is only bearable when he says, “I’m coming with you.”
You get to the hospital in Lima, Ohio, eight hours after you found out. The fingers squeezing Robert’s hand are numb, and you see the facsimile of Quinn—you think of how you once peeled an orange, sucked out the middle, and taped together the outside, leaving it hollow—sutured together, black and blue in the hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator, tubes snaking from between her ribs, draining blood and fluid.
You know spears in sides and the ripping of the temple curtain, and you don’t cry because they said she might be able to hear you.
You sing instead, Brett Dennen because you’re from San Francisco now and it’s the only way you know how to say you’re sorry.
Quinn bears a heavy cross along her back with startling grace. She has moments of heartbreak—“This isn’t fair,” she says, punching the tile of the shower before she starts to cry—but mostly she is patient and stoic and happy.
Santana and Brittany—her best friends, you know—are funny, and they make Quinn laugh. She looks at them like you do all of your friends, and you know they’re her sisters too.
Rachel—who is more annoying and more beautiful than Quinn has ever mentioned—makes Quinn beam, though, and you catch her staring and blushing and licking her lips more often than not, and even when Quinn has a black eye and is in a hospital gown, Rachel stares and blushes back.
“They’re adorable,” Robert says one night when you’re back at the house, in a guest bedroom full of your childhood stuff. “I bet they’ll get together before the end of the year.”
“I’d bet against you, but betting against Quinn is—”
Robert laughs. “If she wasn’t your sister, and if she wasn’t a lesbian, I’d totally take her on a date. She’s hot, stitches and all.”
You shake your head. “She might not be a lesbian.”
“I guess so.”
You’re both quiet for a few minutes before you ask, “When do you think she’ll come out to me?”
Robert kisses your forehead with a smile. “Soon.”
“Hopefully,” you say.
You go back to San Francisco because you and Robert have school, but you keep in close contact with both Quinn and your mother.
Quinn learns to walk again, and she sends you a video a the first step she takes.
She’s wearing one of your t-shirts from Stanford, and her smile helps you understand that maybe you never were Pilate or Barabus at all.
Your father never calls. In a way, you’re relieved, because you’re not sure if you believe in that many second chances.
Quinn goes to Yale, walking again and strikingly happy. She visits you over fall break, and she gets really antsy one morning. Robert has the day off, and he looks at you with a smile and a raised eyebrow when Quinn asks him if he can give the two of you some privacy.
Then Quinn starts crying and then she says, “I’m gay,” and then you hug her and try not to smile or say Finally (although you will do both later that night with Robert).
Instead you say, “I love you so much. Thank you for telling me.”
Quinn says, “You’re the first person in our family that I’ve told.”
It was never about Barabus in the long run anyway, you come to understand.
The next few years consist of you watching the Quinn and Rachel Saga—as Robert calls it—unfold. Quinn calls you giddily one night in December of her freshman year at Yale and says that she and Rachel kissed, that it was quiet, which you understand.
Quinn gradually comes out to the people she deems important—your mother handles it spectacularly, and you’re so proud you visit to tell her so—and then to the people that don’t matter.
Quinn and Rachel fight, though, because they’re singularly the most stubborn people you’ve ever known. They break up a few times and once for almost a year, but you know—because you and Robert get married, and then you have a baby girl, whom you name Lucy (Quinn cries when you ask her permission), and her eyes are eventually Quinn’s same hazel—that Quinn and Rachel are meant to be with each other.
You’re thirty and Quinn’s one day away from twenty-five when she calls you—she’s lived in New York for three years now, with Rachel—and says that Rachel proposed. That she said yes.
You help her plan her wedding.
Lucy is the flower girl and you’re not the maid of honor—that’s Santana, without any question—but you do get to stand as a bridesmaid and watch your little sister marry the love of her life, watch her cry as she recites the most beautifully-written, moving vows you’ve ever heard, watch her kiss the one person she wants to spend the rest of her days with.
At the reception everyone dances and sings and you can’t remember ever seeing Quinn so happy.
Lucy falls asleep on Robert’s lap, and she looks just like you when you were little but she reminds you much, much more of that little girl who wished on fairies and believed in magic, for which you are glad.
And now you know the whole story—Barabus was a cog, because sacrifice and resurrection and Tonight you will be with me in paradise happened despite the crowd’s leers and Pilate’s dirty hands; Quinn never needed your saving anyway—and tonight you hug Quinn as you help her change into her dress for the honeymoon.
She says, “I love you.”
You say it back.
two. you’re just like your father, buried deep under the water
The first night they bring Rachel home, they have no idea what to do, because she literally cries the entire night.
Hiram thinks that maybe it’s because she doesn’t have a mother, but it also goes to show that the kid has one solid set of pipes.
When Rachel is four, she starts asking to sing, all the time. Hiram is the one to take her to preschool, and on the days he gets the words wrong to Sesame Street and eventually “Don’t Rain On My Parade,” he gets long-winded, surprisingly sophisticated lectures from his daughter.
When Rachel is eight she comes downstairs, sits down at the kitchen table while Leroy and Hiram are making dinner, and says, “I will do anything it takes to win a Grammy.”
It’s cute, but it’s also terrifying, because Hiram unequivocally believes her.
Rachel doesn’t really have friends. She never wants to have sleepovers, or go to birthday parties, or even just play with other kids.
“Her focus is a good thing,” Leroy says when Hiram worries late one night.
“Too much of a good thing isn’t a good thing,” Hiram mutters, but Leroy is already asleep.
The first year of high school is hard, because Rachel realizes that she’s lonely. She’s bullied all the time—every day—by a lot of people.
Hiram is aware that Quinn Fabray is one of them.
Quinn Fabray’s bullying is different, more desperate. Hiram doesn’t know why this is, but he’s also sure that Rachel has always come out the better person due to adversity.
Rachel isn’t interested in boys at all, not until Quinn Fabray starts dating Finn Hudson—Rachel draws a diagram of their names for Hiram as she explains it. Rachel, up until this point, has shown an interest in learning about sex, but not necessarily exclusively heteronormative relations.
Sometimes Hiram chalks that up to the fact that he and Leroy are gay and that Rachel was always raised to be fair and open-minded—and she always has been—but then sometimes he sees just how much Rachel really does care about Quinn Fabray, and then he just can’t be sure.
Finn Hudson joins Glee Club. Rachel is ecstatic.
Quinn Fabray joins Glee Club.
Rachel, she tells them that night at dinner, is terrified, but she also smiles.
For the first time in all of high school, Rachel seems happy. Rachel seems like she’s no longer hurting so much.
Whether he has Quinn Fabray to thank for this in part, Hiram has no idea.
But then he does: The connection between Rachel and Quinn Fabray becomes more pronounced as Quinn Fabray falls further and further, because Rachel could be climbing—and sometimes she is—but Rachel always seems to want to catch her anyway.
At Regionals, Hiram sees Quinn Fabray for the first time.
He can understand why Rachel’s drawn to her, because, even pregnant, she’s beautiful and precise and talented, and Hiram also can understand why Rachel probably stands no chance.
By the beginning of junior year, Rachel doesn’t talk about her as Quinn Fabray anymore at home.
She merely refers to her as Quinn now.
Rachel is with Finn and then not, and Finn is with Quinn and then not, and it happens so fast Hiram almost wants to ask for another diagram.
Finn and Rachel kiss at Nationals, and it’s the first time that Hiram really has been scared that something might be standing in the way of Rachel and a Grammy, and that this thing might not necessarily be good.
Rachel doesn’t come home crying from school at the beginning of senior year until two weeks in. She makes it through a day full of a food fight without crying, which is wonderful and surprising. But what’s even more surprising is that Rachel cries one evening and when Hiram asks her why, Rachel says, “Quinn is so messed up, and I don’t have any idea how to help her.”
Hiram has no idea what to say.
Rachel continues in a rush. “She—just, I know something’s wrong and she—she’s my friend, and I can’t just let her—”
“—Rachel,” Hiram says, holding Rachel against his chest as she cries. “She’s going to be okay.”
“What if she isn’t?” The question is small, but Hiram can feel Rachel holding her breath. “You have no idea what she means to me.”
Rachel and Quinn have never really been friends, but Hiram says, “She’s a strong girl. She’ll be okay.”
Rachel quiets, but her words are on repeat in Hiram’s head all night anyway.
Things get serious with Finn quickly—much too quickly—and Rachel stops rambling on about Quinn’s dress and Quinn’s handwriting and Quinn’s hair.
It breaks Hiram’s heart for a variety of reasons, because he wonders when his daughter who would stop at nothing to be the best started compromising so much to fit in.
He wonders where Quinn fits into all of that, and he even sort of misses Rachel’s random interjections of Quinn whenever possible.
Mostly, Hiram wonders if Rachel doesn’t want to admit she has feelings for Quinn because she’s embarrassed because of him, because loving a girl might seem cliched in her eyes.
Hiram doesn’t cry, but those are the kinds of things that really make him want to.
Rachel says yes to Finn’s proposal.
Hiram wants to smack her—although he would never lay a hand on his child—and when Rachel comes home from school and informs them that, “Quinn is vehemently opposed to the marriage,” Hiram thinks that he and Quinn might actually get along.
None of Quinn’s protests—or Kurt’s, or any variety of others’—seem to do the trick. Hiram still wonders if he’s making the entire thing up with Rachel and Quinn in his head, because he’s never actually seen them together, but when Finn says, “It’s now or never,” and Rachel turns back to check her phone, waiting for Quinn, Hiram is entirely sure that he wasn’t imagining anything.
Santana Lopez gets a call from her father merely minutes after that, and for the next week, Hiram consoles Rachel by promising, again, that Quinn will be okay.
Only this time he knows it’s not true, and this time he knows that Rachel’s sure of that too.
Hiram and Leroy accompany Rachel to see Quinn six days after the accident. Rachel’s been before, with various groups of friends, but now Quinn’s generally coherent and also—Santana snaps at Rachel as they walk in—in a good deal of pain.
Rachel sits down in the chair left unoccupied by Santana and takes Quinn’s hand as Hiram gets caught in the doorway, hovering between Quinn’s broken body in the bed and how gently Rachel is stroking her bangs back from her forehead as Quinn cries softly into Rachel’s hand.
It’s a heartbreak that Hiram cherishes, soft rain against the window and Rachel humming a song he’s never heard before but one that Quinn seems to love.
Months go by. Rachel messes up “Don’t Rain On My Parade” and that’s the moment that Hiram is entirely certain Finn Hudson has ruined everything.
But then Rachel wins Prom Queen—which is entirely fishy, he knows, but the pictures from that night, coupled with Rachel’s, “And then, Quinn stood up!”—are more than enough.
Hiram grins the next morning when he hears Rachel at 6 am, “Take My Breath Away” coming from her room as loudly as he’s ever heard her sing.
They win Nationals and Rachel’s most repeated comment in strings of seemingly endless rambles—she’s excited, and Hiram finds himself smiling because it’s like she’s a little kid—is, “Quinn danced. Just danced, like before.”
She says it sixteen times. She only talks about Finn twice.
Finn breaks up with Rachel, and it’s the first time Hiram has really approved of anything Finn has done.
Rachel spends the summer in New York, taking a few summer courses at NYADA.
Apparently she and Quinn text and talk on the phone and Skype all the time.
One day in July, Rachel tells Hiram over the phone, “And then Quinn told me to stop referring to myself as ‘Finn’s ex,’ and to start referring to myself as ‘Rachel’ again, and I did, and it was fantastic.”
“Quinn always has given good advice,” Hiram says.
Hiram learns in August that Quinn had bought Rachel a Metro pass, to come visit her at Yale. Rachel takes it the second weekend Quinn is in New Haven, and Hiram’s sure the only reason she doesn’t go the first day possible is because Rachel wants to impress Quinn, and seem cool around Quinn.
It’s kind of adorable, all things considered.
Rachel very seriously sits down on a weekend visit in September and says, “I’m not entirely sure how to go about this, because I’ve always shown a propensity towards heteronormative relationships, and I’m not necessarily opposed to them, but I am currently experiencing romantic feelings for another female.”
Leroy nods and so does Hiram.
Leroy says, “You know, honey, we’ll always love you. No matter what. And obviously we don’t care, as long as this person makes you happy.”
Rachel smiles and she looks down and then she says, “It’s Quinn. And she does.”
Rachel sends them pictures of she and Quinn dressed up as Barbra Streisand and Grace Kelly for Halloween at a party at NYADA.
Quinn is laughing in most of the pictures, her short hair in soft waves and her hand tucked faithfully into Rachel’s.
Rachel is smiling in every single shot.
Rachel brings Quinn home for dinner as her girlfriend the winter break of their freshman year in college.
Quinn is even more beautiful now than Hiram remembered from seeing her briefly at graduation, politely thanking them for having her over and shyly holding Rachel’s hand.
She starts to loosen up when Hiram asks her about school, and Rachel beams when Quinn talks about a screenwriting class she really enjoyed.
By the end of the night, she and Rachel sing them a duet and Quinn laughs heartily and even dances a little, twirling in her black and white dress.
They leave around ten—Rachel to drive Quinn home, because Quinn doesn’t drive anymore—and Hiram says, “She’s perfect.”
Leroy laughs, clearing dessert from the table. “I’m just relieved we got that over with. Four years is a really long time to wait for a first dinner.”
Quinn spends the night a few nights later, stumbling down the stairs in the morning in sweatpants and wearing glasses and one of Rachel’s NYADA t-shirts, her hair messy.
Rachel is right behind her, and they share soft smiles when Hiram says, “Good morning, girls. There’s coffee,” before going back to his crossword.
Quinn sits down, glances at the clues, and announces, “Fifteen across is ‘Mimi,’ from Puccini’s aria.”
Rachel looks happily shocked.
Quinn shrugs. “Believe it or not, I actually listen to most of the things you say.”
Hiram laughs. “She’s a keeper, Rach.”
Two months later, Rachel calls Hiram crying. “Quinn’s father used to beat her with a belt. She has scars and she just told me and I didn’t know what to other than just tell her how sorry I was, and then I just needed to call you and—”
“—Oh, Rach,” Hiram says softly.
“Thank you for being such a good dad,” she says.
Hiram cries. “You’re welcome.”
Sometimes they fight and for a while they break up. But then Rachel comes home for a weekend and Quinn is right there beside her, smiling and wearing glasses and fixing wind-blown hair.
Hiram and Leroy go out that night, because there’s something just wrong about hearing what Quinn Fabray’s innocent-enough-looking lips and fingers are capable of doing to their daughter, which they’d made the mistake of hearing only once before because they came home early from a movie: Quinn isn’t exactly quiet, but Rachel is loud.
Hiram does have to acknowledge, though, that Rachel still has a solid set of pipes.
Quinn gets an Oscar nomination for Best Screenplay, but she doesn’t win. Rachel wins two Tonys, but Rachel seems more excited by Quinn’s nomination than she does with her own victories.
Hiram smiles when Quinn says she’s not disappointed at all.
If Hiram wanted to pick a metaphor for how far they’ve all come, he would just stick with this, because Judy is sitting proudly in the front row, and Santana is Quinn’s maid of honor, and Kurt is Rachel’s best man.
Hiram walks Quinn down the aisle. Walks Quinn—and in the time they’ve known her, Quinn has had pneumonia twelve times, and three additional back surgeries, so it’s still a big deal—and Quinn is beautiful.
Rachel’s face, though, when she sees Quinn, is probably the most complete part of the metaphor, though, because it’s twelve years of Casablanca and tears and push and pull.
Rachel is undeniably happy, and so is Quinn, and Hiram knows that’s all he’s ever really wanted for his child(ren) anyway.
title. “for the widows in paradise” by sufjan stevens.
quote. "blood bank" by bon iver.
one. “lights” by ellie goulding.
two. “moth’s wings” by passion pit.
mentioned. “here comes the sun” by the beatles.