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Week 125: Listening for Lily



After loss, you learn to listen differently.

You listen to the hush between footsteps.

To the way sunlight sounds as it cuts through a cold morning.

To the faint hum of the world carrying on around you.

You listen in the sideways spaces—music on the radio, dreams that shimmer just out of reach, the sudden memory that stirs without warning.

And sometimes, when the silence grows too heavy, you ask for help: a song, a sign, a whisper carried through someone else’s voice.

The first time I did, it was out of desperation. Grief had wrapped so tightly around my chest, I could hardly breathe. I reached for the afterlife hotline—a medium—hoping for anything: a thread, a breath, a glimmer.

And she came.

“I saw you,” Lily said through the medium, “on your birthday. Looking at the aurora in the backyard. I was right there with you.”

I had told almost no one about that night.

And just like that, I believed.

Since then, there have been flashes.

Quick moments when the veil thins:

• A silly song popping up just when I needed to laugh.

• A memory so vivid it feels like time folding in on itself.

• A rare, quiet moment when I open myself to her energy—and feel her. My mouth smiles without permission; tears spring to my eyes.

There was a time I couldn’t even turn on the radio.

Music was our language—because she had few words, because she couldn’t explain.

In the car, she became a different girl: swaying, humming, fully herself.

After she died, the silence was unbearable.

It took months just to crack the window to sound again.

But now, she finds her way back to me through music.

The other day, Pharrell’s “Happy” came on just as the sunrise painted the windshield gold—our song.

I smiled through tears and whispered, I hear you.

There are other signs, too.

The ring I bought with her in mind but tucked away—the one with two hands clasped together.

When the medium said, “She keeps showing me her hands,” it clicked.

I pulled it out. I wear it now when I travel.

Because she travels with me.

Because seeing the world through my eyes is part of our story now.

Not everything makes sense.

Not every signal is clear.

But that’s okay.

What I carry now is this:

Listening is its own form of love.

When I notice a song blooming in an empty car, when I feel a memory rising sharp and bright in a quiet room—

I am saying:

I remember you.

I love you still.

I love you always.

I don’t need proof anymore.

I don’t need answers.

I just need to listen.

And when I do, she’s there—bright as ever, riding the music, hidden in the hush.

Still reaching for me.

Still mine.

Has there been a time you felt a connection or a sign from someone you love? I’d love to hear.

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