For the Parent Who Will Always Be Part of the Song

There's a song that was theirs. The one they hummed in the kitchen. The one they always turned up in the car, every single time, with no shame. The one that came on at the funeral and made the room go quiet because everyone knew.

Grief doesn't follow a calendar. It shows up on birthdays and ordinary Tuesdays. On the day the song plays in a grocery store and you have to stop walking.

We take the actual waveform of their song — the real shape of the sound that was theirs — and make it something you can hold. On the wall. Around your neck. On a shelf where the light catches it.

Not a replacement. A presence. The song, still here.