Today, I’m here to confess something I didn’t see coming, something that quietly unraveled over time like a thread I didn’t know existed. It started when I was cleaning out the attic, a task I had postponed for years. I stumbled upon an old, dusty shoebox hidden behind stacks of forgotten memories. Inside, there was just one object: a small, wooden spinning top.
It might not seem like much, but for me, it was the world condensed into a small piece of craftsmanship. I remember the top from my childhood, how it spun endlessly, capturing my young imagination and distracting me from the noisy arguments of my parents. A perfect childhood prop, I thought, until last week.
I sat in the attic, the top spinning on the wooden floor as I watched it dance. My mind wandered as it did so. In the dim light, a memory surfaced—like a fish rising to the surface of a still pond. I saw my father, his large hands guiding mine as he showed me how to spin the top. His voice was gentle, almost a whisper, ‘See? It’s all about balance.’
Then it hit me, something I hadn’t thought of in years. My father didn’t just teach me to spin; he taught me to find balance. I had always thought of my childhood as mostly chaotic and my father as a distant figure. But in that moment, in that dusty attic, I realized he had been there more than I had allowed myself to remember. Every spin, every peaceful moment I stole from the chaos, had been his gift.
I sat back, wiping a tear that had somehow escaped my eye, and let the memories flow. I saw the countless nights I spent in my room, the muffled sounds of disagreements filtering through the walls, and the top spinning tirelessly on my desk, a symbol of stability. I hadn’t just spun it for fun; I had spun it for solace.
It was a revelation—my father’s quiet love had threaded through my childhood, unseen but profoundly impactful. I remembered small things: his careful watch as I played in the yard, the way he would leave my favorite snacks by my bed when he thought I was asleep, his quiet presence at my school plays. It had all been there, like the spinning top, subtle and steady.
I carried the top downstairs, my heart heavier with the weight of how much I had misunderstood. I called my father, voice trembling slightly as I asked if he remembered the top. He chuckled softly, a sound that wrapped around me like a familiar blanket, ‘Of course, I do. You loved that thing.’
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ I asked, the question hanging between us, profoundly loaded.
There was a pause on the line, and I imagined him choosing his words carefully. ‘I guess actions spoke louder than words. I always thought you knew.’
‘I didn’t. Not really,’ I confessed, more to myself than to him.
And then, in the silence that followed, I felt a shift—an opening of a door I never knew was closed. My father and I talked for hours, bridging gaps with words we hadn’t shared in years.
So here I am, sharing this with you. It’s easy to miss the quiet things, the soft gestures, and the subtle threads that connect us to those we love. This simple, wooden top has spun a new understanding into my life, reminding me to look for love in the hushed corners, where it often resides, unspoken.
Sometimes, it takes something as small as a spinning top to unravel the deepest truths of our lives. I’m grateful for the chance to see it now, to piece together the love I overlooked, and to spin new stories from the same thread.