Echoes of a Forgotten Song

There was a melody once—

soft as twilight,

sweet as the breath between words.

It played through open windows,

drifted into summer kitchens

and rested on the shoulders of children

who didn’t know what it meant to ache yet.

It hummed in my grandmother’s humming,

in the creak of old stairs,

in the whistle of the kettle

and the way my mother used to say my name—

like it mattered.

Like it was a lyric worth singing.

But time is a careless conductor.

It turns notes into noise,

choruses into silence.

Now, I can’t recall the full tune—

only fragments,

echoes that visit me in dreams,

or in the static of an old radio

when I’m not really listening.

Sometimes, I think I hear it

in a stranger’s laughter

or the rustle of wind through brittle leaves.

It stops me mid-step,

heart pausing,

like something ancient in me remembers.

Like a part of me longs

to hum along.

I search for it still—

in dusty music boxes,

in thrift shop records with torn sleeves,

in the way light flickers across forgotten things.

Maybe it was never a song at all—

just a feeling

that once had rhythm.

A memory that moved like music

through the marrow

before life quieted it.

Still, some nights,

when the world goes dim

and everything slows,

I hear it faintly—

a thread of sound

woven through the hush.

And I realize,

even if I’ve forgotten the words,

my soul remembers the tune.

It plays in me still,

soft and low,

like a lullaby

meant only for the broken-hearted—

those of us

still trying to find our way

back to the chorus.