Hey everyone,
I’ve been sitting on this for a while now, letting it churn within me until I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I guess it’s time to share. Maybe it will resonate with some of you, or at least help me make sense of it all.
Last month, I moved back into my childhood home to help my mom with some things. She’s been having a tough time since Dad passed last year, and I thought it would be comforting for both of us if I were around. Living in my old room again, surrounded by ghosts of memories, has brought up a lot of emotions I thought were long buried.
One afternoon, while cleaning out the attic, I stumbled upon an old, dusty case tucked behind some boxes. It was my father’s violin, a relic from another life. I remember him playing it when I was a child, his music filling the house with warmth and a sense of belonging I haven’t felt in years.
Opening the case, I was overwhelmed by the familiar scent of aged wood and rosin. Nestled within was the violin, its varnish cracked and peeling, a poignant reflection of the time that has passed. Beneath it lay a stack of yellowed papers—sheet music, meticulously annotated in my father’s handwriting. It was the same melody I used to hear him play, every Sunday evening.
I sat there, in the dim light of the attic, tears blurring my vision, as I realized something profound. That music, those notes, were his way of communicating with us, with me. Every note he played, every crescendo, every pause, it was like he was speaking directly to my soul. I never understood until now.
With trembling hands, I picked up the violin. I don’t play—never have. But in that moment, it felt right. I fumbled through the basic tunes I remembered, the sound scratchy and awkward. Yet, each imperfect note resonated deeply within me, echoing the conversations we never had, the words left unspoken.
I brought the violin downstairs to my mom. ‘Do you remember this?’ I asked, setting it gently on the table. Her eyes softened, a smile shadowed with sadness tracing her lips.
‘Your father loved that violin more than anything,’ she whispered, running a finger along its neck. And then, almost as if the floodgates had opened, she began to tell stories about Dad’s life before us that I’d never heard before. How he dreamt of being a professional musician. How the violin was his sanctuary during his hardest times.
I listened, rapt, feeling a part of him I never knew before. I understood now why he played every Sunday. It was his way of keeping his dream alive, offering us a piece of his deepest self.
All these years, I thought I knew him. But this simple, quiet discovery—a dusty violin in the attic—reconnected me with him in a way words never could. I feel raw, but also strangely at peace. I’m learning to embrace this newfound perspective, investing in the legacy of love and music he left behind.
So, I’ve taken up lessons. I want to learn to play, not to become the musician he never was, but to keep our connection alive. In every note, I feel his presence, his love, and his dreams. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to sing the song of my own heart, too.
Thanks for listening. Sometimes, it’s the quietest voices that speak the loudest.