When I was little,

I called my father’s playlist “The Jukebox”,

packed with thousands of songs

I identified solely by their sounds.

 

There are pictures of my younger-self wearing band t-shirts,

The Clash, Led Zeppelin, and Queen, to name a few,

chosen by the taste of my parents,

worn reluctantly based on colors that pleased my eye.

 

I saw music as a simple form of entertainment,

sometimes even background noise

that I would endure for my parents’ sake,

as they played their favorites on repeat.

 

I recently made my own playlist,

simply titled “childhood songs”,

composed of nostalgic songs that I vividly recall

for their rhythms and beats.

 

As I listen to this playlist now,

I have a profound realization:

My parents have instilled maturity in me from my birth,

through the artists that did the same for them.

 

Some of the contents on “childhood songs”

are rather melancholy and deep -

Amy Winehouse, Joy Division, The Smiths -

tragic tales of life and death that transcend time.

Others are simply bizarre, but acknowledged for their genius -

Björk, Depeche Mode, Marilyn Manson  

posing as early introductions

to radical art forms.

 

Perhaps the largest revelation,

was when artists were “discovered” by myself

years later, a newfound appreciation

blossoming to its fullest potential.

 

I now listen to my parents’ favorite musicians

with a more mature perspective.

I can now appreciate the lyrics, the instrumentals,

the artists themselves, as they deserve to be.

 

And as a young adult,

I can bond with my parents

over what we all hold most valuable:

the power of a great song.