The Dictionary of Forgotten Sounds

The tape recorder arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in yellowed newspaper and smelling of attic dust. I’d ordered it off eBay—a 1973 Sony TC-55, olive-green with chrome accents—because the listing said "Includes mysterious cassette." Grief makes fools of us all.

Six months after Mom’s stroke, her absence had settled into our house like reverse snowfall. Quiet upon quiet. Dad moved through rooms as if afraid to disturb the air. I’d taken to collecting things she’d loved: her tattered copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, the chipped teapot shaped like a tulip, the way she’d hum "Moon River" while folding laundry.

The cassette was unlabeled. When I pressed play, the speakers exhaled a hiss like distant ocean static. Then—

"Testing, one-two. Elena, are you—oh!"

Mom’s laugh, twenty years younger, bubbled through the machine. My ribs became birdcages.

"Okay, serious now. It’s October 14th, 1999. Ben’s at soccer practice, and someone," —a muffled rustle— "just learned to say ‘mama.’ Come on, miracle child."

Baby me babbled off-rhythm. Mom cheered like I’d recited Shakespeare.

The tape ended there. Seven minutes, fourteen seconds. I played it until the batteries died.

Dad found me crying onto the recorder’s cracked leather case. "Where’d this come from?"

"eBay," I sniffed. "Thought maybe…"

He touched the pause button, worn smooth from use. "Your mom loved this thing. Used it to record your first steps, your kindergarten plays." His thumb traced the volume knob. "Funny what sticks around."

That night, I Googled how to digitize cassettes. The internet offered tutorials with titles like "Rescuing Audio From Decay!" I liked that word—rescue. As if sounds could drown.

The next tape came from Aunt Lydia, mailed in a cookie tin with a note: "Found this in my basement. Sounds like you need it more than me."

Side A revealed Mom at twenty, pre-marriage, pre-me, singing along to Joni Mitchell with spectacularly bad pitch. Side B held a argument with Grandpa about feminism that ended with her slamming a door and muttering, "Patriarchal fossil."

I played it for Dad. He grinned. "She recorded that fight to prove she’d won."

"Did she?"

"Your grandpa bought her The Feminine Mystique the next week."

We laughed until our stomachs ached. The house felt lighter, like someone had opened a window.

By spring, the collection grew. A cassette of Mom interviewing Grandma about her childhood in Manila. A micro-tape from her old Dictaphone with meeting notes ("Budget meeting = snore fest"). Even a voicemail she’d left me in college: "Just checking if you’re alive. Call back or I’m sending search parties."

Each tape was a fossil—not of bones, but breath. The way she’d sigh before answering difficult questions. How she’d click her tongue against her teeth when concentrating. The wet-eyed pause before saying "I’m proud of you."

I began noticing sounds she’d loved but I’d forgotten: The thwick of a knife through celery. The squeak of our porch swing. The particular silence of snow at midnight.

The final tape arrived in June. No return address, just my name in unfamiliar handwriting.

This one crackled like campfire logs. Then:

"Hi, future Claire. It’s present-day you’s mom."

I choked. She’d recorded this five months before the stroke.

"I found my old tapes and realized—we preserve baby giggles and wedding vows, but not the mundane music of being alive. So here’s my boring, beautiful noise."

A clatter of dishes. Dad whistling off-key. Me yelling "Doorbell!" from another room.

"That’s your ‘I’m ignoring my chores’ voice," Mom teased on tape. "I hope you’re still terrible at folding fitted sheets."

The recording ended with her singing "Moon River"—just the chorus, just for me.

Now, when the quiet gets too heavy, I press play. Not to pretend she’s here, but to remember:

Love isn’t just the big moments. It’s the static between them. The hum of a refrigerator at 2 a.m. The rustle of pajama pants against couch cushions. The way someone says your name when they’ve known you since before you had one.

I keep the TC-55 on my desk, its reels frozen mid-turn. Sometimes, when the light hits just right, I swear I can hear the machine breathing. Waiting.

Ready for the next forgotten sound to come home.

BY ZIAFAT ULLAH, THANKS FOR READING.