Music Memory @_MusicMemory

Music Memory. #music #musicmemory #turnthelightsoff

Love and Labels Christmas music starts playing, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas... He takes my hand And places his fingers in between mine They fit perfectly We walk over to the dance floor And he pulls me close to him My heart begins to beat fast, I am nervous He puts his arms around me And he holds me tight I smile I rest my head onto his shoulder We start to slow dance I can feel his heartbeat next to mine And I can smell the light scent of soap on his skin I kiss his neck And then he kisses the side of my cheek I can’t seem to get close enough to him And he sways me back and forth In this moment I am happy I think to myself… I’ve waited so long for him To feel him this close to me My soul tells me this is love My thoughts begin to get away from me And I start to remember him saying… “Women over 25 are old… I don’t date single moms… I don’t date women who are…" And somewhere in between All the “I don’t date women who are…” I realized I am one of those women I know my love is for him But his love wasn’t made for someone Like me Suddenly my head is no longer resting on his shoulder I can’t feel his arms around me Holding me tight And I can’t feel his heartbeat Beating against mine We are no longer slow dancing or swaying back and forth My smile and happiness are gone The music stops I lift my head, look up at him And stare into his eyes As he begins to disappear… Even as he’s disappearing I try so hard to reach out And hold on The sadness floods my soul My heart starts to hurt I close my eyes And the tears run down my cheeks He’s gone I am left standing here In time and space Where love was created and thrown away Because he believes in Manmade labels about women I remember his words, again I acknowledge that I’m not Good enough For him or his love I open my eyes It’s Christmas day I stare at my tree And the 19-year-old Snowflake ornament I guess today I’ll try to get off the couch #achristmasstory #music #musicmemory #writing #storytelling #love

Today the sky is blue the kind of blue that feels good just to look at. Then I hear a bird whistling. It makes me think of spring. Open windows. Warm air. That simple, hopeful feeling that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention. I smile and walk over to the window, trying to spot it scanning the trees, the wires, the sky, wondering where it’s perched. Then I began to notice the smoke drifting lazily from chimneys, curling into the cold air Icicles hanging from the gutters, sharp and unmoving catching the light like they are trying to be pretty about it. And then I realize it isn’t a bird at all. I look over to my bed and see my cat, all curled up, cozy and asleep. a tiny whistle slipping out of her nose with every breath. Sleeping away those winter blues. I stand there for a second, a little embarrassed, a little amused. Spring still finds its way in even if it’s not how I expected. #cats #spring #winter #storytelling

The White Bra Work is over. It’s Friday. I close my laptop and pull the blanket tighter around me before getting up. The room is dark. The day is gone. I pick up the blanket again and lay down on my bed. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. I stare at my bra hanging from the door handle. White. Padded. Lace straps. I guess it was made to make women feel beautiful, maybe even wanted. It never did that for me. The house feels colder tonight. Too quiet. My cat’s downstairs. She doesn’t like me anymore. No one does. I hear her move through the dark. She’s probably wondering why I haven’t come downstairs, why I haven’t turned the light on today. Something falls probably that tall Christmas candle on the table. I don’t know why I bought it. There’s no one to light it for. No one to sit across from. No one to talk to. I roll over, the blanket heavy on my shoulders, and stare at the bra again. I can’t remember the last time I wore one #Friday #whitelace #bra #writing #storytelling

A person is never truly gone from your life if they had ever shared music with you. #Music #MusicMemory #Storytelling #writing #Metallica

The Last Summer Seventeen July wrapped itself around me in heat and sunlight, the kind that slows everything down, the kind that makes a day feel endless. The pool shimmered, blue glass bending the sun into fragments that danced along the side of the house. The air was thick with cut grass, warm pavement, and the faint sweetness of summer. It was just me and my dad then, getting the yard ready for later. He lived for moments like this for the chance to turn the volume up, to throw open the doors, to make a celebration out of nothing. He always loved music, always loved pulling people together with it. He set up the speakers, fiddled with the dials, and then it came on… The Boys of Summer. The drums started, steady and insistent, the beat carrying across the yard until it seemed to move through me. Even now, when I hear those opening notes, I am right back there Seventeen again. The sun on my skin. The music rising. The worldwide open in front of me. I stretched out on a lounge chair, tilted my face to the sky, and closed my eyes. For a few breaths, I wasn’t thinking about who I was supposed to be, or what came next. There was no weight, no fear, no edge of responsibility pressing in. Only joy. Only freedom. That was my last summer of innocence though I didn’t know it then. All I knew was that the world felt big, and I felt ready for it. Music, sunlight, and possibility wrapped around me like a promise. And I believed it. #Music #MusicMemory #Storytelling #Writing #BoysofSummer

The Last Summer #Music #Musicmemory #Storytelling #Writer #BoysofSummer #Summer

Black leather and Moonlight #musicmemory #music #memory #storytelling #Writing #love #loss #Queensrÿche

Black Leather and Moonlight #MusicMemory #Music #Storytelling #Writing #love #loss #skidrow #harley

Black Leather and Moonlight It was late afternoon when I stopped at the diner off Route 6 the kind of place that still plays old rock quietly through a single speaker above the coffee counter. The air smelled like toast, rain, and the faintest hint of engine grease from the garage next door. I wasn’t really hungry. I just needed somewhere to sit. The waitress poured my coffee, and I wrapped my hands around the warm cup, watching the steam rise. I’d been thinking about my dad again the way certain songs still find me, the way memory sometimes pulls up a chair even when you’re not ready for company. That’s when the bell above the door rang. And a familiar voice said my name. “Melody?” I turned, and there he was, Brian. One of my dad’s old friends. His hair had gone gray, and the years had settled into his face, but his smile was exactly the same. He walked over and nodded toward the seat across from me. “Mind if I sit?” We talked easily at first about nothing, really the weather, work, how small towns never change no matter how much you do. But eventually, as people always do when they carry the same loss, we found our way to my dad. Brian leaned back in the booth, his eyes far away. “You know,” he said softly, “Your dad could walk into a dead bar and bring it back to life.” I smiled a little. “That sounds like him.” He lit a cigarette, took a drag and exhaled slow. And as the smoke lifted between us, I could almost see the story forming in it like the air itself wanted me to remember. The diner faded away. The music changed. And suddenly, I was there. He’s young again black leather jacket, faded Skid Row shirt, the low rumble of his Harley echoing down the quiet country road. He pushes open the bar door, and the room barely stirs. A few men sit hunched over their beers, the smell of smoke and stillness heavy in the air. He nods to the bartender, orders a beer and a bourbon the first sip barely down before he moves to the jukebox in the corner. He flips through the pages like a preacher thumbing through scripture: Mötley Crüe. Danzig. W.A.S.P. Scorpions. Poison. Queensrÿche. Each one a promise that the night is about to live again. When Kickstart My Heart hits the air, the crowd begins to shift. Heads lift. Smiles return. Someone laughs for the first time in hours. A man in ripped jeans and an Ozzy shirt walks over, hand extended. “Brian,” he says. “Rocco,” my dad replies. The pool table lights flicker on. Cigarettes glow like fireflies. The air hums with guitars, laughter, and the unmistakable spark of something real. He’s alive in a way only music can make you alive. That kind of moment doesn’t last, but it never really leaves either. When Jet City Woman plays, he lights his last cigarette, takes a drag, and smiles that knowing smile like he’s keeping the whole night in his pocket. Brian’s voice brought me back to the diner. The smoke had faded, but the weight of it still hung in the air. He looked down, half-smiling. “He really was something, your dad.” “I know,” I whispered. Outside, the sky was turning to that deep, bruised shade of blue the one that always made me think of headlights and home. Brian paid for our coffee and stood, his hand resting on the edge of the table for just a moment. Then he said, “You should keep listening to his music, kid... He’ll aways be with you that way.” I watched him walk out into the twilight, the bell above the door ringing softly, and for a long while, I just sat there. The diner had gone quiet again. But in my head, I could still hear it… the crack of pool balls, the laughter, the jukebox turning over to the next song. And somewhere inside that memory, my dad was still there black leather and moonlight, alive in the sound of a song. #music #memory #musicmemory #story #writing #storytelling #nostalgia #love #loveandloss #ozzy #MotleyCrue #Danzig #WASP #Scorpions #Poison #Queensryche #Skidrow

Black Leather and Moonlight #Music #Musicmemory #Storytelling #MotleyCrue

Roses, a Cigarette, and a Free Bird I was driving up the hill to my dad’s house on a warm July evening, the kind where the light lingers long after the heat has softened. I opened the sunroof, rolled the windows down, letting the summer air rush through the car. There’s something freeing about that air the way it threads through your hair, brushes your skin, touches you like a familiar, forever kind of love. When I pulled into the driveway, my eyes went straight to the backyard to the quiet blue of the pool sitting still under the fading sky. It had been silent there lately. Too silent. But I couldn’t look at it without remembering the beginnings and endings of so many summers: friends and family scattered around the pool, laughing, smiling, sun-drunk and alive. Music drifting through the air like a second breeze, my dad grilling barefoot, smoke curling up into the sky as if it belonged to every summer we ever had. I remembered the way people used to fill this place with the full weight of their living their voices, their stories, their joy… All the memories that now lived only in me. When I stepped out of the car, the first thing I saw was the red rosebush wild now, overgrown, reaching everywhere at once. For years my dad would pluck a single rose from that bush and give it to me before I left, the petals always a deep, velvet red. Seeing it unkept made something shift in my chest, like time was moving in ways I couldn’t stop. Birds chirped in the distance, a few flying overhead as if they belonged to the memory forming around me. I walked inside the house and was immediately met with cool, crisp air the same familiar chill that had lived in these walls every summer of my life. The evening light poured through the windows, soft, golden, stretching itself across the tall speakers, the wooden cabinets, the crooked family photographs. It touched everything gently, as if the whole house was glowing from within, turning itself into a warm memory I could step directly into. And when I entered the living room, he was there. In the same place he’d always sat in, a cigarette resting between his fingers the same way it had my entire life. He looked up and smiled that warm, steady smile that had met every version of me from childhood to now. I walked over and hugged him, carefully, gently, afraid of how light he suddenly felt in my arms. We talked for a few minutes about nothing, about everything, the kind of small talk people make when both of them are avoiding the truth. But even in our easy conversation, I could feel it. The shift. The decline. The way his body fought to keep up with what his spirit still tried to give. And something in me paused. Because for the first time, I had to look twice to recognize him. His body had thinned, his face sharpened, his breath shorter, his movements slow as if time had begun pulling at him in ways I wasn’t prepared to see. And yet the light still found his eyes, still reflected that same softness, that quiet goodness. The dad I had always known just dimmer now, like a record slowly losing its volume. In the background, the low guitar of Lynyrd Skynyrd drifted through the speakers no voice yet, just the wandering, wistful melody. I knew it instantly. I always did. My dad's music lived in the walls. Their old orange cat was curled beside him on the couch, sleeping in that heavy, peaceful way only aging animals seem to understand as if they know about endings long before we do. The music floated through the room carefully, almost reverently, as though even the house knew it needed to be gentle with him. My eyes drifted to everything around us CDs softened at the edges, vinyl collected over decades, cassette tapes carrying fingerprints older than my own life. Pieces of him. Pieces of his world. All sitting in quiet witness. And something rose in my throat, tight and unfamiliar like I already knew something my heart wasn’t ready to understand. After a moment of silence, I stepped closer and asked softly, “What do you want me to do with all your music?” He didn’t answer right away. He took a long, slow drag of his cigarette slower than I’d ever seen and when he exhaled, the smoke lifted into the last of the evening light, dissolving like it understood it was part of a goodbye. Then he looked at me with that same tender smile he’d given me my whole life and said: “Listen to it all.” #music #memory #musicmemory #LynyrdSkynyrd #story #Writing #storytelling #nostalgia #love #loveandloss

#Music #MusicMemory #lynyrdskynyrd #Storytelling