When I was a little girl, my Dad would play the song “Blackbird” by The Beatles for me all the time. It became the song I needed to listen to at night to help me fall asleep.
Choruses of “Again! Again!” would echo through the room as I asked him to put it on repeat.
As a little girl, this song was comfort. It was safety. It was my Dad.
That song became a constant companion over the years that followed.
Fast forward in time several years: I was 21 years old, newly married, and about to move several states away with my husband who was in the service at the time.
And during moments when I would feel especially homesick, I would put “Blackbird” on repeat: It was comfort. It was safety. It was my Dad.
It’s funny how a song can imprint itself onto your heart in such a powerful way. It becomes a part of your soul’s soundtrack, a permanent part of your personal playlist.
But when my Dad died, it felt like the music stopped. So many songs were interlaced with memories, and now so many memories felt too painful to sing along to.
There were times when I would put the song on, but something had shifted.
It was the same song I’d listened to a million times before, so why did it feel so different?
I would press play and be greeted with grief. Everything felt out of tune and wrong. Nothing felt stable or safe, it just felt unbelievably sorrowful.
There were days when I still wanted to listen. I would let the tears fall and allow the song to be part of my processing. But there were also days when I would quickly shuffle past it if it came on. I think it’s important to honor both kinds of days and give our hearts time when it’s needed.
So I let my heart lead. And in the years that followed, I slowly found days to sing: days of singing through the sorrow and days of singing along with all of the memories. Days where I could remember why that song means so much to me.
Skip ahead another ten years: I am 31 years old and have two beautiful boys with my husband.
I tuck my oldest son into bed. I turn on his “Space Buddy” night light and watch as it projects shooting stars onto the ceiling.
He scoots over to make room for me in his racecar bed. I gather his stuffed animals in close and snuggle in next to him for a few minutes. As I am getting ready to say goodnight, he says:
“Mama, can you put ‘The Blackbird’ song on?”
I had played it for him many times before, but his requesting it at bedtime is new.
I press play and watch his little face light up like the stars projected onto his ceiling. He sings along to every word in his adorable toddler voice.
As I watch him, I feel tears start to well up in my eyes. I am transported back to nights of listening to this with my Dad. I feel his love so fully at that moment. It is in every word, in every chorus.
And, it gives me a newfound strength to sing along too.
So, each night as I do the bedtime routine with my son, I am attuned to his sweet little voice asking for “The Blackbird” song. Choruses of “Again! Again!” echo out as he asks for it on repeat. And I wonder if one day when he puts the song on and presses play he’ll think to himself:
“This is comfort. This is safety. This is my Mom.”
*This post is from the “Gently, We Journey” archives. Thank you for revisiting this special story with me.*
Thanks for sharing your personal story. It’s tough for quite awhile to feel like hearing, enjoying, and singing. It’s like living, in singer/poet Don McClean’s words: “ the day the music died.” But, as you shared, one day there is the feeling to hear and sing the music again…shared with our loved one.
❤