Taylor Swift was walking through Central Park on a quiet Sunday morning, enjoying the rare peace that came from being out before most of the city woke up. She loved these early hours, the soft light filtering through the trees, the dew still on the grass, the world feeling new and unhurried.

 She was heading toward the Alice in Wonderland statue, one of her favorite spots in the park. The bronze sculpture of Alice sitting on a giant mushroom surrounded by the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat, and the White Rabbit had always felt magical to her, a reminder that even in the middle of a massive city, there were pockets of whimsy and wonder.

 As she approached the statue, she saw two figures sitting at its base, an elderly woman, maybe 65, and a little girl, perhaps seven or eight years old. They were sitting close together, the woman’s arm around the child, both of them staring at the statue in silence. But as Taylor got closer, she realized they weren’t just sitting quietly. The little girl was crying.

 Not loud, dramatic crying, but the quiet, devastating kind. Tears streaming down her face, her small body shaking with suppressed sobs. The elderly woman was crying, too. Softer, trying to be strong for the child, but clearly struggling. Taylor hesitated. She didn’t want to intrude on what was obviously a private moment of grief.

 But something about the scene, the little girl’s heartbreak, the grandmother’s exhausted sorrow made her approach anyway. “Excuse me,” Taylor said softly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you both okay?” The elderly woman looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her face lined with exhaustion that went beyond just being tired. She looked like someone who’d been crying for days, maybe weeks.

 “We’re managing,” the woman said, her voice. “Just having a hard morning.” The little girl looked at Taylor with huge sad eyes. She was small for her age, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a purple jacket that seemed too big for her. “What’s your name?” Taylor asked the child gently, sitting down on the ground in front of them.

 Penelope, the girl whispered. That’s a beautiful name. I’m Taylor. Penelopey’s eyes widened slightly. Like the singer? Yes, like the singer. The grandmother managed a weak smile. She loves your music. Her mother. Her voice broke. She took a moment to compose herself. Her mother loved your music, too. Loved.

 Taylor noticed the past tense, felt her stomach drop. My daughter Sophia died two weeks ago. Cancer. She was 34 years old. The woman’s voice was barely holding together. I’m Beatrice. I’m Penelopey’s grandmother. And now I’m I’m all she has left. Taylor felt tears burning in her eyes. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. Penelopey spoke up, her small voice breaking.

Mommy promised she’d sing me a lullaby before she died, but she was too sick. Her voice didn’t work anymore, so I never got to hear it one last time. “What lullababy?” Taylor asked gently. “The one she always sang.” “Every night since I was a baby, but I can’t remember it anymore.

” Penelopey started crying harder. It’s only been 2 weeks and I already can’t remember Mommy’s voice or her song. I’m forgetting her. Beatrice pulled Penelopey closer. You’re not forgetting her, sweetheart. You’re just sad right now. But the song is gone. Mommy’s song is gone and now I’ll never hear it again.

 Taylor looked at this heartbroken child at her grieving grandmother and felt something break open in her chest. Penelope, do you remember anything about the song? Even just a little bit. I remember the tune. Kind of, but not the words and not Mommy’s voice. Can you hum the tune for me? Penelopey looked uncertain. I don’t know if I remember it right. That’s okay. Just try.

 Whatever you remember is perfect. Slowly, hesitantly, Penelope began to hum. It was soft and wavering, occasionally uncertain, but there was a melody there. Simple, sweet, the kind of tune a mother would sing to comfort a child. Taylor listened carefully, her heartbreaking.

 This was all Penelopey had left of her mother’s nightly ritual, a half-remembered melody already fading. Beatatrice. Taylor said, “Do you know this lullabi? Do you know the words?” Beatatrice shook her head. Sophia made it up. She started singing it when Penelopey was a baby. I heard it hundreds of times when I visited, but I never learned it. It was their special thing just between them.

 So, the words are lost. Sophia was going to record it. She knew she was dying. She wanted to leave Penelopey a recording of the lullabi, but by the time she tried, she was too weak. Her voice was almost gone from the cancer. She tried to sing it into her phone, but couldn’t get through it. She was crying and her voice kept failing and finally she gave up.

 Beatatric’s own voice broke. She died three days later. The lullaby died with her. Penelope was sobbing now. I want mommy’s song. I want to remember it, but it’s going away and I can’t stop it. Taylor made a decision. Penelope, what if we created your mommy’s lullabi again? You remember the tune? What if we figured out words together? Maybe not the exact words your mommy sang, but words that honor her.

Words that keep the lullaby alive. But they won’t be mommy’s words. No. But they’ll be words about your mommy. Words that make sure her lullabi doesn’t disappear. Would that be okay? Penelopey looked at Beatatrice who nodded encouragingly. I think mommy would like that. Beatatrice said softly. She wouldn’t want her song to be lost.

 Two weeks earlier, September 28th, 2024, Sophia Martinez knew she was dying. The doctors had told her six months ago that the breast cancer had spread everywhere. Lungs, liver, bones, brain. There was no more treatment, just pain management and waiting. She was 34 years old with a 7-year-old daughter and she was dying.

 The hardest part wasn’t the pain, though that was terrible. The hardest part was knowing all the moments she’d miss. Penelopey’s 8th birthday, her first day of third grade, her middle school graduation, her high school prom, her wedding, her children, Sophia’s grandchildren that would never exist. Sophia made lists of everything she wanted to tell Penelope.

She wrote letters to be opened on future birthdays. She recorded videos giving advice for different ages. Open this when you’re 13 and everything feels impossible. Watch this before your first date. Play this on your wedding day. But there was one thing she couldn’t figure out how to preserve. The lullabi.

 She’d started singing it when Penelope was an infant. Those long nights when the baby wouldn’t sleep. And Sophia was delirious with exhaustion. She had made up a simple melody and hummed it. And somehow it had worked. Penelopey had calmed, had dozed off. Over the years, Sophia had added words.

 Nothing fancy, just simple verses about love and safety and always being there. She sang it every single night. Even as Penelopey got older, even when most kids had outgrown lullabies, it was their ritual, their moment, their song. And Sophia was terrified that when she died, the song would die with her. Two weeks before her death, when she could still speak, but barely, Sophia tried to record the lullaby on her phone.

 She wanted Penelopey to have it to be able to hear her mother’s voice singing her to sleep even after Sophia was gone. But her voice was too weak. The cancer had spread to her throat. What came out was raspy, broken, barely recognizable. Sophia tried three times, crying with frustration before giving up.

 I can’t, she told her mother, Beatatrice, who was caring for both Sophia and Penelope. I can’t leave her the song. You’ve already given it to her, Beatatrice said. She knows it by heart. But she’s seven. She’ll forget. Kids that age, their memories are so fragile. In a year, maybe two, she won’t remember the melody or the words or my voice.

 The lullabi will be gone. Then we’ll help her remember. But Sophia knew the truth. Without a recording, without something concrete to hold on to, the lullabi would fade. Memory was too unreliable, especially for a grieving child. She died 3 days later. The lullabi unrecorded.

 knowing she’d failed to preserve the one thing that had connected her to her daughter every single night for seven years. Alice in Wonderland statue 7:45 a.m. Taylor sat with Penelope and Beatatrice at the base of the Alice statue and she said, “Okay, let’s rebuild your mommy’s lullabi.” Penelope hum the melody again for me. Penelopey hummed the tune stronger this time, more confident. Taylor listened carefully.

 her musical training allowing her to hear the structure, the phrasing, the emotional shape of the melody. “That’s beautiful,” Taylor said. “Now, Penelope, tell me about your mommy. What was she like?” She was nice and she always smelled like flowers and she gave the best hugs. What else? She read me stories every night, and she made funny voices for all the characters. And she never got mad when I was scared of the dark.

 What did she say when you were scared? Penelopey thought. She said, “I’m always here, even when you can’t see me.” Like the stars during the day. Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. Taylor felt tears on her cheeks. That’s beautiful. What else did she say? She said I was brave and strong and that I could do anything and that she’d always love me forever and ever, even after. Penelopey’s voice broke.

 Even after she was gone. Those sound like words that should be in a lullabi, Taylor said gently. Let’s try something. I’m going to sing some words to your mommy’s melody, and you tell me if they feel right. Okay. Penelopey nodded. Taylor began to sing using the melody Penelopey had hummed, creating words from what the child had just shared. Close your eyes, my little one. Rest your head. The day is done.

 I’m always here, though you can’t see. Like stars that shine, I’ll always be. Penelopey’s eyes widened. That sounds like mommy. Is that what she sang? I don’t know. Maybe. It feels right, Taylor continued, building the lullabi verse by verse, asking Penelopey questions about her mother and weaving the answers into lyrics.

You are brave and you are strong. You can face what comes along when you’re scared and when you’re small. Remember, love surrounds you all. Remember, Beatatrice was crying quietly, listening to her daughter’s values and voice being transformed into song.

 I will love you forever more, even when I’m not at your door. Close your eyes and you will see. I’m in your heart eternally. By the time Taylor finished the third verse, all three of them were crying. The lullabi wasn’t exactly what Sophia had sung. The words were different, recreated rather than remembered. But the essence was there. The love was there.

 The comfort was there. Is that close to what mommy sang? Taylor asked. Penelope thought carefully. The words are different. But it feels the same. It feels like mommy. Then let’s record it, Taylor said. right now while we remember so you’ll always have it. She pulled out her phone and set up a recording.

 Penelope, I want you to sing this with me. Your voice and mine together. So when you listen to it later, you’ll remember this morning and you’ll remember your mommy and you’ll have a lullabi that’s both old and new. They sang it together. Taylor’s trained voice and Penelopey’s small wavering one blending into something imperfect and perfect at the same time. Beatatrice joined in on the second verse.

 Her grandmother’s voice adding depth and history. Three voices, three generations, singing a lullabi that had been lost and found, forgotten and remembered, ended and reborn. When they finished, Taylor played it back. Penelope listened with her eyes closed, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Now mommy’s song isn’t gone anymore.” “The memorial.

” 2 days later, Beatatrice called Taylor. “I want to do something with the lullaby. Would you mind if we played it at Sophia’s memorial service? We’re having a small ceremony at the hospital where she was treated. I think I think Sophia would want the lullaby to be there.” Taylor agreed immediately. Of course, whatever you need.

 The memorial service was held in the pediatric oncology wards garden, a small, beautiful space where families of sick children could find moments of peace. About 50 people gathered Sophia’s friends, family, colleagues from the social services agency where she’d worked. Beatatrice spoke about her daughter. Sophia knew she was dying for 6 months and she spent that time not grieving for herself but preparing Penelope. She wrote letters. She recorded videos.

 She tried to capture everything she wanted to say for all the years she wouldn’t be here. But the one thing she couldn’t preserve was the lullabi. She tried. God, she tried so hard, but her voice was too weak. and she died believing she’d failed to leave Penelopey that comfort.

 Beatatrice looked at Penelope who stood beside her. Two weeks after Sophia died, we met someone at the Alice in Wonderland statue who helped us rebuild the lullabi. Not the exact words Sophia sang. Those are lost, but words that honor her, words that keep her song alive.

 Taylor had provided a professional recording of the lullabi, just her voice this time, clean and clear, so Penelopey could listen to it every night, but for the memorial, they played the original recording from that morning at the statue. Three voices, imperfect and honest, singing together. As the lullabi played through the garden speakers, people wept. Parents of sick children understood immediately.

 This was about preserving love when a parent can’t stay. This was about making sure a child never forgets. After the service, a woman approached Beatatrice. My son is dying. Brain tumor. He’s 5 years old. And I’ve been trying to figure out how to leave him something some way for him to remember me.

 Would you would you share how you recreated the lullaby? Beatatrice looked at Taylor who’d come to the memorial. Taylor nodded. We can help. Taylor said the lullaby project what started with one recreated lullabi became something larger. Taylor partnered with Beatatrice and the hospital’s paliotative care team to create the lullaby project, an initiative that helped dying parents preserve or create songs for their children. Some parents had songs they’d been singing for years but had never recorded. The project helped them record

professional versions while they still could. Some parents, like Sophia, had waited too long and couldn’t sing anymore. The project helped their children remember the melodies and rebuild the songs with new or approximated lyrics. Some parents had never had a special song, but wanted to create one before they died.

 The project paired them with musicians who helped compose lullabibis tailored to each family. Within 6 months, the project had helped over a hundred families. Each lullabi was unique, some joyful, some melancholic, all of them filled with love that transcended death. Penelope became an unexpected advocate.

 Despite being only 7 years old, she spoke at fundraisers and memorial services, sharing her story. My mommy died before she could record our lullabi. I thought it was gone forever, but then we found it again. Not exactly the same, but close enough. And now I listen to it every night. And I remember mommy singing to me.

 If your mommy or daddy is sick and might die, record their voice now, record their songs because even if you think you’ll remember, you might not. And that hurts so much. 6 months later, what died cher the lullaby project expanded to hospitals across the country. Dying parents could request help creating or preserving lullabies for their children.

 Volunteer musicians, Taylor among them, donated time to record, compose, and help families preserve these final musical gifts. One session particularly affected Taylor. A mother named Angela, 31 years old, dying of ALS, had lost the ability to speak, but she could still hum barely. Her four-year-old son, Matteo, needed a lullaby to remember her by.

 Taylor sat with Angela in the hospital room, helping her hum the melody she’d always sung. It was slow, laborious work. Angela’s humming was weak and inconsistent, but over 2 hours, Taylor captured enough to reconstruct the melody. Then Taylor interviewed Angela’s husband, Diego, about Angela, her values, her hopes for Matteo, the things she’d always said to him. From that interview, Taylor created lyrics.

 Little bear, my little bear. Mommy’s love is everywhere. When you’re big and when you’re small, mommy’s love will hold you all. She recorded the lullabi in Angela’s hospital room with Angela listening through headphones, tears streaming down her paralyzed face, unable to speak, but nodding to show that yes, these words captured what she’d wanted to say. Angela died two weeks later.

 At her funeral, Little Bear’s lullabi played, and Matteo, who’d been too young to fully understand death, sang along, knowing the words by heart already. Diego later told Taylor, “Angela couldn’t speak for the last month of her life. Couldn’t tell Matteo she loved him one more time, but the lullabi said it for her.

” Every night, Matteo hears his mother’s love even though she’s gone. That’s everything. One year later, on the one-year anniversary of Sophia’s death, Penelopey and Beatatrice returned to the Alice in Wonderland statue, the place where the lullaby had been reborn. Taylor met them there bringing flowers.

 “How are you doing?” Taylor asked Penelopey, who was now 8 years old and looked older, more serious, shaped by grief. “Better. Not good, but better. I still cry for mommy everyday, but I listen to the lullabi every night, and it helps. Do you still remember your mommy’s voice? Penelopey thought about this. Not really. It’s been a year. I remember the lullaby now instead of her actual voice. But Grandma says that’s okay.

 She says the lullaby is mommy’s voice in a different way. Beatric nodded. Sophia would be so proud of what came from that morning here. The lullaby project has helped so many families. her death, her struggle to record the lullaby before she died. That’s saving other children from losing their parents songs.

 “How many families has the project helped?” Penelope asked. “Over 500,” Taylor said. “500 dying parents who’ve been able to leave Lullabis for their children. 500 kids who won’t lose their parents. Songs the way you almost lost your mommies.” Penelopey looked at the Alice statue, then at Taylor. Mommy would like that. She always wanted to help people. Even dying, she wanted to help. She is helping through you.

 Through the lullaby, through every family who gets to preserve their songs because of what happened to your mommy. They sat together at the base of the statue. Three people connected by loss and music and the determination to make sure love survived even when people didn’t. “Will you sing the lullaby with me?” Penelopey asked.

 “Like we did that first morning?” Taylor smiled. Of course, they sang together. Penelopey’s voice stronger now, more confident, carrying the melody her mother had created. The words Taylor had helped rebuild. The love that survived death. Close your eyes, my little one. Rest your head. The day is done. I’m always here, though you can’t see. Like stars that shine.

 I’ll always be. Taylor’s reflection. One year later, Taylor wrote in her journal on the anniversary, “A year ago, I found Penelopey and Beatatrice at the Alice and Wonderland statue, grieving Sophia’s death, and the loss of the lullaby she’d never been able to record.

” Penelopey was 7 years old and already forgetting her mother’s voice. The lullabi sung every night for 7 years was fading from memory, and she was terrified that without it, she’d lose her mother completely. We rebuilt the lullaby that morning. Not perfectly. We didn’t have Sophia’s exact words or her voice, but we captured the essence, the melody Penelope remembered, the value Sophia had taught, the love that had filled those nightly songs.

 What I didn’t realize that morning was that we were creating something bigger than one lullabi for one grieving child. The lullaby project now exists because Sophia Martinez tried and failed to record her song before she died. Because Penelope was brave enough to hum the melody even though she couldn’t remember all of it.

 Because Beatatrice was willing to help rebuild something she thought was lost. Over 500 families have been helped. 500 dying parents who’ve been able to leave musical gifts for their children. 500 kids who have lullabies to hold on to when their parents are gone. I’ve participated in dozens of recording sessions now. sat with dying mothers and fathers, helping them create or preserve songs for children who’ll grow up without them.

Every session destroys me. Every lullabi makes me cry. Every parent who can barely speak or sing, but is determined to leave this one final gift. It reminds me how powerful music is. Not just as entertainment, but as legacy. These lullabibis aren’t about technical perfection. They’re about love made audible.

 about making sure children have something to hold on to when everything else is taken away. Penelopey is eight now. She’s growing up without her mother. That’s not fair. That’s not okay. That will hurt her for the rest of her life. But she has the lullabi. Every night she hears her mother’s love, even if it’s not in her mother’s exact voice.

She hears the value Sophia taught, the comfort Sophia provided, the eternal nature of a parents love. That doesn’t fix the loss, but it makes it bearable. I think about all the children who don’t have lullabibis, whose parents died suddenly with no chance to record anything, whose memories are fading, and there’s nothing concrete to hold on to.

 The lullaby project can’t help them all, but it can help some, and helping some means everything to those families. Sophia died believing she’d failed to leave Penelopey the lullabi believing the song would be lost forever. But it wasn’t lost. It was transformed, rebuilt, reborn, and now it’s helping hundreds of other families make sure their songs don’t die when they do. That’s legacy. That’s impact.

 That’s love continuing even when life ends. Every time I hear Penelope sing the lullabi, her voice getting stronger, more confident, carrying her mother’s melody into a future Sophia will never see. I’m reminded music outlasts us. Songs survive us. Love when transformed into melody becomes eternal. Sophia Martinez died at 34 years old, but her lullabi lives forever.

 In Penelopey’s voice, in the project that bears her name, in every child who goes to sleep hearing a parent who’s no longer there. The song didn’t die, it multiplied. And that’s the most beautiful tribute a mother could have. Epilogue. The universal message. This story reminds us that we assume we’ll have time to preserve what matters.

Sophia knew for 6 months that she was dying. And she still waited too long to record the lullabi. Not because she was careless or didn’t care, but because acknowledging that she needed to record it meant acknowledging she was really going to die meant accepting that Penelope would grow up without her.

 So she procrastinated, put it off, told herself she’d do it next week, next month when she felt stronger. And then it was too late. Her voice was gone. The lullabi couldn’t be recorded, and she died believing she’d failed to leave her daughter, the one thing that mattered most. But the story didn’t end there. Because Penelope remembered the melody.

 And with Taylor’s help, they rebuilt what had been lost. Not perfectly. The exact words Sophia sang are gone forever, but close enough, meaningful enough, loving enough. The lullaby project exists now because of Sophia’s failure because she waited too long. Hundreds of other parents don’t have to. They can record their songs while they still have voices.

 They can preserve their love while they’re still alive. That’s the lesson. Don’t wait. If you have something important to preserve, a song, a story, a voice, a message, preserve it now. today. Not when you’re ready, not when it’s convenient, not when you have more time.

 Now, because Sophia thought she had time and she didn’t, and her daughter almost lost the lullabi completely because of that assumption. The other lesson is about reconstruction. Even when something seems lost, sometimes it can be rebuilt. Penelopey’s memory of the melody combined with Beatatric’s memory of Sophia’s values combined with Taylor’s musical skill created something new that honored something old.

 It wasn’t exactly what Sophia sang, but it was close enough to matter, close enough to comfort, close enough to let Penelope feel her mother’s presence every night. That’s hope for anyone who’s lost something they thought was irreplaceable. Sometimes with help, with effort, with love, what seemed gone forever can be partially restored. Not perfectly, but meaningfully.

Penelope is 8 years old now. She’s growing up without her mother. Every milestone Sophia will miss. First day of middle school, first heartbreak, graduation, wedding, motherhood will hurt in new ways. But every night, Penelopey will hear the lullabi. We’ll hear her mother’s love made audible. We’ll be reminded that she’s brave, she’s strong, and she’s loved forever.

That’s not the same as having her mother alive. Nothing is. But it’s something. And sometimes something is enough to survive on. Sophia’s lullabi didn’t die with her. It multiplied. It evolved. It became a project that saved hundreds of songs that might otherwise have been lost. That’s legacy.

 Not in the way Sophia planned, but in a way that matters even more. Record the voices you love. Preserve the songs that matter. Don’t assume you’ll have time because Sophia’s lullabi almost disappeared completely. And now it’s everywhere. Sung by hundreds of children, honoring hundreds of parents, living forever. The song didn’t die.

 

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