[Intro] [Slow, dampened piano chords] [Soft, weary sigh] [Verse 1] The house is a museum of a life cut short Shadows moving along the hallway floor Mama turns her head at a floorboards creak A question in her heart she’s afraid to speak She reaches for the phone in the kitchen light To tell a little secret revealed in the night But the dial tone’s a lonely prayer As she whispers, "Is my Debbie there?" [Chorus] [Build slightly, soulful delivery] In the garden where the flowers grow In her room where the sun once shown Mama goes walking with an empty stare Asking every corner, "Is my Debbie there?" Not the girl in the ground or the girl in the news But the one who used to tie her baby brother's shoes She’s looking for light, for golden hair Crying to the silence, "Is my Debbie there?" [Verse 2] [Voice gets breathier, more intimate] She checks the porch, through the screen door. She looks for a footprint on a hardwood floor She goes to places her laugh lingers … life slipped through her fingers … Every rustle of a curtain, every breath of wind A signal from a daughter, a long-lost friend She checks in closets, her favorite chair Asking the darkness, "Is my Debbie there?" [Bridge] [Vocal fry, slow and pained] It’s a haunting kind of habit, a mother’s routine Searching for a “might-have-been” dream She knows the answer, the heart won't care It still has to ask... "Is my Debbie there?" [Outro] [Music fades to a single note] She isn't in the kitchen. She isn't on the stairs. But Mama keeps on asking... "Is my Debbie there?" [Pause] I turn to tell her something, and I catch the stare Wondering too... Is my Debbie there? [End] [Fade to silence]
