Hey everyone,
I never thought I’d be sharing something this personal on here, but I guess it’s a safe space, right? It’s funny how life can twist and turn, leading us to uncover truths we’ve lived in the shadow of for so long. Here’s my story.
It all started a month ago when I was cleaning out the attic at my parents’ house. My mother had asked me to sort through some old boxes before they moved to Florida. I wasn’t thrilled about it, imagining dust-coated memories and forgotten family relics. But there I was, sifting through yellowed photographs, brittle letters, and obscure knick-knacks.
And then I found it: a small, unassuming wooden music box. Its carvings were faded, but I could still trace the delicate swirls with my fingertips. A slight turn of the key, and it played a quiet, familiar tune. The melody was gentle, almost like a lullaby, and it tugged at something deep within me.
I took it back to my apartment, setting it on my bookshelf. Every evening, I’d wind it up, letting the melody drift through the rooms. It wasn’t just a tune; it was a doorway. The notes seemed to unravel something deeply buried within my mind.
When I was little, I had recurring dreams of a woman singing beside a gentle stream. Her voice was soft, the song kind and soothing. These dreams faded as I grew older, but the music box brought it all rushing back—the same melody from my childhood dreams.
I called my mom to ask about the music box, hoping for a story of its origin, a family heirloom perhaps. Her voice was hesitant on the phone, a silence that spoke volumes. “Oh, that old thing,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Your grandmother loved that tune.”
“Grandma?” I echoed, confused. I didn’t remember my grandmother very well; she passed when I was young. “Why didn’t you ever play it?”
There was a pause. “You know, it’s just one of those things,” she replied, her voice tinged with something unspoken.
Later that evening, curiosity gnawing at me, I dug deeper, searching through old family albums. In one dusty box, I found a letter from my grandmother to my mother, written a year before I was born. It was a simple note, full of love and dreams for her soon-to-be grandchild. But at the end was a postscript that made my heart stop: “Sing the river song to them, always.”
I read those words over and over, feeling a strange mixture of warmth and sadness. The tune wasn’t just part of my dreams—it was a part of my real life, woven into my earliest memories through my grandmother’s love.
I called my mom again, this time more insistent. “What was the river song?” I asked. There was another long silence.
“Your grandmother used to hum it to you when you were a baby,” she finally revealed. “We stopped after she passed. I guess we thought… it was her thing.”
The realization hit me like a wave. The melody was more than just music; it was a connection to a love that had been with me all along, a hidden legacy.
I don’t think I ever truly understood how closely our past can shape us until that moment. The music box wasn’t just a forgotten object; it was a bridge to my grandmother, to the love she’d given me, and the song she’d left behind.
Since then, I’ve found a strange peace in that melody. I’ve started playing it on the piano, the notes filling my home just like they once did my dreams. And each time I play, I feel her beside me, singing her river song.
I guess sometimes, life nudges us to rediscover things we’ve unconsciously held onto. It’s funny how something so small can open a door to understanding ourselves a little better.
Thanks for letting me share. Maybe now, you’ll listen a bit closer to the whispers around you. You never know what forgotten tune might resurface.
Love,
Alex