Melodies in the Heart

Some songs are written with ink. These were written with rain. On a velvet chair beside a rain-streaked window, a violin rests unplayed but not unheard. A single rose bleeds its petals into shadow while a lamp hums its fireplace glow against the storm. These are the melodies found in rubble, the songs sung at bus stops when no one else was listening, the rise whispered into ashes. In 2017, I told my dying wife I was writing her dreams. This book is me keeping that vow. Her dreams had sound. They had wings. They had hell or high water in them, and a heartbeat that chose to stay.