Songs Tied In Memories
My mother thinks I am depressed. I vehemently disagree and say, “That phase of my life is over.”
She says, “Even that breaks my heart,” and asks, “When?”
I repeat, “That phase is in the past. It doesn’t matter.”
In her silence, I wonder what would have been left of her heart if I had followed through with my decision not to be anymore.
It’s been a while since I’ve thought of my death.
Honestly, I do not even know why I am writing about this here. I truly have songs I want to write about. But these sentences dart about in my mind. If I do not let them out, they will crash into their deaths and become manure, ballads for their funeral.
By letting them out, it is like watching them fly into the sunset. A proud mama bird, watching her thoughts breathe and take wing.
It’s been a while since I’ve thought about my death. Or of anything cosmically tragic happening to me. But it happened while I walked today. Deep sighs. I am safe now. I got home without anything cosmically tragic happening to me. That phase of my life is in the past.
Do you have songs that you have tied to memories? Songs that once you hear them, that particular memory — person/place — comes to mind? I have a couple:
Ego — Djinee
I was seven. I had just found out that my first best friend would not be coming back for primary four. I cried. I crode. I crewed. Somehow, I was able to play this song on repeat during my crying session. Every time Djinee mentioned Ego, I replaced it with Events. What’s funny is, as I listen to this song, I don’t think it’s Ego who left. Djinee messed up, and he had to leave. I didn’t mess up, yet I got dumped.
Being a child can be so hilarious. It wasn’t even her fault she was changing schools. Even after we reconnected years later, I never asked if she missed me as I missed her. All my seven-year-old self knew was that I had been dumped. The first betrayal. The first domino tile. I swore against having one best friend after that. I could never place all my friendship eggs in one basket.
Golden Leaves — Passenger
I was seventeen, and I was in my first ‘actual’ relationship. During one of our late-night talks, he asked me what my favorite song was. I don’t really have favorites, but I was deep in my Passenger era.
So I said, “I don’t have a favorite song, but I do have a favorite musician.”
“Who’s that?” He asked.
“Passenger.”
“So, which of his songs is your favorite? There has to be one.”
I had just discovered Golden Leaves, and it was currently on repeat. You know how it is: you find a song and play it over and over again. It does not mean it’s your favorite; it’s just that at that moment, it strikes chords in your soul.
“I would say Golden Leaves.”
He said okay, and we moved on to other things. He must have listened to it overnight because the following day, he asked me if I wanted to break up. I was beyond confused. He asked if I agreed with the song and if that was how I felt. I spent most of that conversation trying to convince him that my love of the song and how I felt about our relationship were two different things.
Maybe I should not have tried so hard. We did break up, didn’t we?
What’s left to break when our hearts are broken? And what’s left to say when every word’s been spoken?
Westlife — Hello, My Love
In the early chapters of what is looking like the best story of my life, I was on a speaking hiatus with my co-author. This was not such a strange occurrence. When you tug on feelings long enough, even your hands become sore. So, you give it a break and give your hands time to heal before you go and tug again.
It was during one of these hiatuses that I received this song recommendation. I listened to this song on repeat. Random messages like that always transform me into a lovestruck teenager, giddy with every sunny emotion.
Given that it’s been at least four years since then, I can safely say I will never forget this song, even if the story decides to come to an abrupt end. Whispers God-forbid.
Dancing On My Own — Calum Scott
I was nineteen. I had just discovered the power of caffeine, and every day, I tested my resistance levels. I was desperate to excel in my academics and had become a fervent night class-goer. Many of my classmates had the same intentions, so our small 300-level lab was always full — reasonably full.
Lovers of music like me took turns playing music out loud, a strategy to help us stay awake. On one such night, Eloho started playing Dancing On My Own. Everyone agreed that the song was one of the most beautiful things ever rendered — until I asked, “Wait, who is he singing for? Why are the lyrics confused?”
Upon listening, we discovered Calum Scott is a gay musician singing for/to his bisexual ex-partner. The guys in the class — senior colleagues — nearly went mad. Thinking about it now, I can still remember how charged the atmosphere was: With laughter from Eloho, Laurel, me, and other girls I cannot distinctly remember (Eloho and Laurel do have beautiful laughs) and with faux-self-hate from the boys for loving and singing a gay song with passion, swearing never to sing the song again.
There are many more song-memories, I am sure. But right now, none other comes to mind. As I write this, I have this nagging feeling that I have told these stories before. It’s not like I mind. It is incredible that I recall these memories fondly, especially as long as these songs continue to exist. I hope I am able to make more memories with songs. And when I am old, and these songs come up on the radio as old school, I will tell these stories to my children and their children, too. So help me, God.
