Hey everyone, I didn’t think I’d ever use social media this way, but here I am. I need to share something that’s been spinning around in my mind and heart. It all started a few weeks ago when I found an old, dusty cassette in my mom’s attic during a weekend visit. She’d asked me to help clean out some old stuff, and there it was, nestled under layers of forgotten memories—an unmarked cassette tape.
Something about it tugged at me. I brought it home, hoping I’d find a tape player buried somewhere in my garage. Yesterday, I did. As the tape played, I was transported back to my childhood. It was my father’s voice, clear and resonant, singing an old lullaby he used to hum when he thought no one was listening. It was my lullaby, a song I hadn’t heard in decades.
Hearing his voice again, I felt a wave of warmth and sorrow. I remembered watching him through a crack in the door when I was little, his deep voice wrapping me in comfort from the shadows. But it wasn’t just nostalgia that hit me. It was a deeper, urgent need to understand something that had always escaped me about him.
Growing up, my dad was an enigma to me. He was quiet, reserved, and always seemed slightly out of reach. His distance left a void that neither my brother nor I could fill with words. He passed away when I was 16, and with him went the chance to ask so many questions I’d never had the courage to voice.
But this tape—it felt like a message from the past. Determined to uncover its meaning, I spent the whole night playing it over and over, tears mixing with laughter as memories surged. At some point, something shifted. I realized it wasn’t just a lullaby. It was a love letter in melody, a window to his soul.
Buried in the song was a line about seeing the stars in the night sky and feeling a connection to an unseen universe. It was the way he sang it, like it held a secret only he knew. Then I remembered: he had once taken me to the park at night, pointing to the constellations, whispering stories about the stars. In those rare moments, I felt close to him, like I was part of that mysterious, expansive universe he cherished.
I started digging through old letters and photos, anything that could give me more insight. Late last night, I uncovered a hidden drawer in his old desk, filled with small trinkets and notes. Among them was a worn postcard of a starry sky with a note on the back: “For the one who holds my universe.” It was from a trip he took before I was born.
I think I finally understand. The personal truth I’ve uncovered is that his quietness wasn’t distance—it was his way of speaking in the language of stars and songs. My father, who seemed so closed off, was filled with a universe of love for us, expressed in ways I couldn’t see until now.
Realizing this, I feel like a missing piece of my life has clicked into place. Even in his silence, he was singing lullabies to us, weaving the cosmos into our lives. I’m learning to hear those songs now, even in the quiet moments when I feel alone.
So why am I telling you all this? Maybe it’s to say that love can be present in ways we don’t always recognize. If you feel a void, a silence, maybe listen harder. Look at the stars. Listen to the songs that linger in the back of your mind. They might just be messages waiting to be uncovered.
Thanks for reading this far. I hope you find the missing notes in your own life, and I hope they bring you peace.
Love,
Sarah