The Forgotten Melody

A gentle, persistent patter of rain fell against the damaged glass, akin to the flow of tears down Anna’s fair cheeks. She was perched at the corner of her bed; a tattered music box accompanied her, which she did not expect to give out any sound. The designs were almost nonexistent as its childlike owners, as it should have been with her.

The music box lacked had been presented to her by her mother on her eight years birthday. Back then it rang to pleasure and warmth in the abode, a time when everything in the universe was complete. Then, apart from a semblance of a mother, it had no sound. For years, Anna had kept that music box closed since she had returned home and left after a senseless fight. A fight she lamented and would never be able to undo.

She had adored her mother: a sweet and tender woman with a voice comparable to that of a lullaby. They spent so many days, making faces, singing along, baking cookies, dancing about in the small house’s little sitting room. However, with maturity came responsibilities and life as well as the pain of knowing and wanting more which estranged them.

Anna was last on the phone with her mother about three years ago, on a stormy night. She accused her mother of being too domineering and not understanding her dreams, holding her back from achieving them. Hurt and yet steadfast, her mother said she only wanted Anna's happiness. Yet Anna did not stay to listen. She packed her belongings and left, slamming the door on a life she once cherished.

Life in the city had certainly not gone as Anna had imagined. She worked late into the night at a job she hated and lived in a tiny apartment that never felt like home. The dreams she had left behind-a musical career and a life of creativity and freedom-have faded with the drudgery of mere survival. For some reason, she wanted to call her mother many times, but again, that damned pride and fear lurked within her.

She received the letter two weeks ago: brief, formal, telling her mother was dead. She had died of a sudden and cruel stroke. Guilt was unbearable; Anna ducked her head in shame: her mom had never gotten even a cold and it never occurred to Anna to inquire about her mother because she was too caught in her own trials to notice or thought of the silence creeping between the two.

The rain still woosh-whooshed its way to the parched earth, now that she had gotten up to open the music box after what must have been years. It opened with an ungrateful chiri, rust tethered even to the age thereof, providing her with a fresh set of tears. The only thing folded there-a note-ugly-cured in that dear handwriting of her lovely mother.

"Dear Anna,

If you are reading this, it means you have come back home. That is what I monologued about inside. This box has seen many of your high and low joyful moments. I can still sense the joy you had in your eyes from the first time you have heard its tune. I hope it reminds you of the love which has always been there for you wherever you wander.

Time is raw, my dear, while love is ever alive. I will always stand by you, even when you lose faith in yourself. Chase after your dreams, but do not forget where you came from. After all, it is never too late to come back.

Love always,

Mom:"

The sound of Anna's sobs reverberated within the small confines of the room. Regrets bore down on her. Hugging the note close to her chest, she wished she could turn back time-wish that she could tell her mother how much she loved her, how sorry she was for leaving. But time, relentless and unforgiving, provides for no other possibility.

The days that followed were a blur of grief and quiet reflection. Anna spent hours in her childhood home, sorting through her mother's belongings, each piece a part of the puzzle of love, sacrifice, and persistence. Old photographs, letters, and even unfinished songs her mother had written sparkled in the corner. Through them, Anna learned of another dimension of her mother's love of music that she had never known.

These revelations spurred Anna into action. She would devote herself to her mother's vision, giving life to the imaginations they once shared; she left the city and returned to her roots. It was in those lonely moments that she started writing music. Driven by tales of love, loss, and forgiveness, she sang her pieces in winced, great beauty. Each raw, unflinching song began to touch other hearts, and slowly Anna began to heal.

While Anna could never wholly efface the grief of her mother's absence, she found much solace in the notes she gave utterance to. Each note paid tribute and promised that the love her mother showered upon her would never disappear from the heart. And though the music box may be mute, every note would persist in the melodic memory of Anna, a perennial piece of a timeless love song woven with redeeming love.