As a young child growing up, I would listen to famous classical singers of my parents’ generation such as Hayedeh and Mahasti. Mind you, this was not my choice. My mother loved (and continues to love) classical music and the depth of their songs, their voices. So what seemed like every day, we would listen to Golha-ye Rangarang or Gol-e Gandom or Azadeh or Khodahafez or any of the other multitude of songs put out by Hayedeh and Mahasti that became instant hits and that I used to passionately hate. Whenever I would complain that the songs were too “funeral-like”, my mom would smile and continue singing along, amused by my boredom and distaste.When I left home for the first time to go to college, maman gave me cherished old tapes of hers that contained these songs that I had become all too familiar with. I don’t recall my initial facial expression (I must have grimaced), but I remember eagerly taking them, not because I finally realized how beautiful these songs were, but because I desperately wanted to have something that reminded me of home.I’m not going to write about the epiphany that came after I played the songs again in college. About how, with age, I came to passionately love these “funeral-like” songs. About how they made me “discover myself.” These are too cliche anyway. Let it be enough to say that listening to these songs again made me closer to maman and made me finally learn some of the implicit lessons she has tried to teach me. I am still learning.