“9:39” – is the time my phone reveals as I quietly sit on the floor surrounded by old worn boxes full of musty vinyl LPs in my dad’s former bedroom. A few months before, my dad was buried at the Arkansas State Veterans Cemetery in North Little Rock, Arkansas. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend his funeral due to the height of the COVID-19 pandemic that made travel from North Carolina to Little Rock, Arkansas a risky endeavor. Nevertheless, I finally made the journey to Little Rock to clean out his house in preparation to sell.

As I sit on the floor, I can hear the gentle but humid southern breeze flow throw the screens of the open windows throughout the house. A battered ceiling fan with a hanging dangling light bulb illuminates the box of treasures that in a few moments I will sort for my brother and me. The ceiling fan blades swiftly twist above my head. Unexpectedly, the constant but bearable noise of the off-balance ceiling fan supplies a soothing rhythm to my psyche.

For years, I asked my dad to pass on his extensive collection of records that were hidden in a back room. On many occasions, in a relaxed manner he would look at me and say, “You can share them with your brother after I am gone.” Well, that day has come and now I sit in an empty house with the sounds of crickets chirping in a perfect call and response. The smell of mothballs inside the house collides with the faint aroma of honeysuckle that glides on the southern breeze that continues to drift through the windows. For many years, I was not close to my dad, but in this moment, I can feel the presence of his spirit eagerly observing me.

My dad was complicated…eccentric…weird…intelligent…selfish…scarred…I could go on. It was rare to hear him talk about his childhood and early adulthood. He was born in Louisiana in 1937, so I can imagine as a black male his life had many moments of sadness, confusion, frustration, disappointment, and a plethora of other adverse emotions. After all, he lived through Jim Crow and the civil rights movement.

“10:01” – 22 minutes flies by in what seems like a blink of an eye. It’s quite clear that moments of reflection are not confined to man’s concept of time. I take a deep breath and place one of the worn boxes in front of me. I pull the first record out and look it over…wondering what my dad’s thoughts were when he first saw and then ultimately bought this record. Where was he when he first opened and played the record? Did he listen to the record by himself…with a friend…with friends…with a special lady? How did he feel when he listened to the songs? What songs made him happy…sad…hopeful…angry? Deliberately and patiently, I silently gaze at album cover after album cover, and in each instance the same questions register in my mind. As the minutes tenderly float by, I feel elation and a bond with my dad’s past. I feel his spirit communicating to me through the album titles and the name of songs printed on the back covers. Thelonious Monk, Candi Staton, Charles Mingus, Van Cliburn, Carole King, Donna Summer…the list of artists goes on. After each record I examine, I feel diverse emotions that range from predictable to amazement to surprise. Then at once, an A’ha moment hits me. My dad’s taste in music was varied and equal to his intellect and non-conformist tendencies.

“2:34” – is the time my phone shows when I finally finish examining and sorting my dad’s extensive and revealing record collection. I feel closeness to my dad I hadn’t felt since my early childhood. From the floor, I rise and keenly stare at the boxes that hold my dad’s vast record collection. My mind tenderly wonders to a quote from Ella Fitzgerald, “Music is the universal language…it brings people closer.” At this moment, I feel closer to my dad’s spirit, and I have found closure.