If only the tunes of old could bring back with them the souls that were once reciting the notes. If only the memories could be held, gripped as tight as my mother’s arms used to hold me as her lips painted each melody through the icy night air. Bring forth that nostalgic backing track of crackling firewood that fit so well beneath her vocals, and the soothing sedate pluck of the lute, guiding my childlike troubles out to the raging sea that we overlooked. Repeat those details, burgeon my mind with every trivial element once more, and those memories I will cherish. Nevertheless, my unembellished mind doesn’t create memories that you can hold on to, it does not replay a pure moment in stunning detail, it cannot capture the smell of her, like a deep broth or a dusty tavern in the sunrise hours. It fleets by like a passing wave, crashing the shores of my wits for a momentary second before all is washed away again. As I find myself humming one of my mother’s departed nightly melodies, all that remains is the pain of my hollow heartache replacing the crackle of embers as they blacken the dead tinder. All I have now are my fervid tears hitting the stone cold floor, tears that now take over for that once sweet lute, vibrating through me as they call out for just another moment with her, to hear her sweet songs again.