Hi everyone,
It’s been a while since I last posted anything more than pictures of my dog or the occasional recipe. But today, I feel compelled to share something more profound—a part of my life I’ve only recently come to understand. Please bear with me.
Growing up, I always admired my father’s collection of old vinyl records. They lined the shelves like silent witnesses to a life before me, each one a story encapsulated in a sleeve. He used to play them every Sunday morning while we had breakfast. The music was like a second parent, filling the house with warmth and comfort.
After he passed away three years ago, I inherited the collection. At first, I couldn’t bear to look at them. They were too intertwined with memories of him. But as time slipped by, I found myself dusting off the turntable and fingering through the albums, seeking solace in their familiar grooves.
Last Sunday, something odd happened. I was flipping through a record from one of his favorite jazz artists when something slipped out from between the sleeve and the cover—a faded photograph of a young woman. She was smiling, holding a bouquet of autumn leaves against a backdrop of vivid fall colors. It stopped me cold.
Intrigued and a little unsettled, I turned the picture over. Written in my father’s unmistakable scrawl was a simple note: “To my autumn muse, with all my love, 1985.”
I spent the rest of that day in a haze, trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle of the man I thought I knew so well. Who was this woman? And why had he never mentioned her?
The following days blurred together as I spiraled through old photo albums, letters, and journals. I was driven by a need to understand a past I realized was more layered than I had appreciated.
Then, in the attic, I stumbled upon a dusty shoebox tucked behind forgotten holiday decorations. Inside, I found letters—dozens of them—exchanged between my father and this woman, named Eleanor. They chronicled a relationship that had unfolded over several years, full of the kind of love that is both tender and tumultuous.
Reading their words, the reserved, stoic man I knew came alive in a way I had never imagined. In his letters, he was vulnerable, poetic, and at times painfully raw. He spoke of dreams, regrets, and a love that had been both exhilarating and heart-wrenching.
And Eleanor—she was vibrant, passionate, and utterly human. Her letters echoed with the same melancholy I found in my father’s, but also with moments of pure, unrestrained joy.
It was through these letters that I discovered a part of him I had never seen—a man who was capable of profound vulnerability and deep emotional connections. And I realized, perhaps for the first time, that understanding my father’s past didn’t make him a stranger; it made him more real.
The real revelation came when I read the final letter in the box. Written shortly before he met my mother, it was a farewell. Eleanor, it seemed, had chosen a different path, leaving behind the life and love they had shared.
As I closed the box, I didn’t feel betrayal or anger. Instead, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. I understood then that the music he played wasn’t just a hobby—it was his way of holding onto a love that had once filled his life with color.
I sat with that photograph in my hand, the one with Eleanor and the autumn leaves, and suddenly the man who was my father felt closer, more vivid. I realized I could now see the grace in his silence, the depth in his choices.
This discovery has rekindled something within me—a willingness to embrace life’s complexities and contradictions. To acknowledge that our truths and our pasts create the symphonies of our lives, both beautiful and bittersweet.
Thank you for listening. I hope you find grace in your own stories, too.
-Lauren