It was a warm, Sunday afternoon in July. I was sitting on my bed, which was covered with my pastel pink blanket. I had just started reading PS. I Still Love You when I heard a faint knock at the door.
“Come in!” I yelled while flipping the page. I looked up and saw my mother enter my room.
“Alissa, would you mind doing me a favor? I need you to clean the basement while I’m running errands. Make sure you do it properly, not halfway.”
“But mom- “I desperately looked at my book, hoping she would get the hint that I was busy reading. “I just started this book.”
“Darling, you can finish it later.”
“You’ve never asked me to clean the basement before.” I whined.
“It’s about time you started. And maybe you’ll find something interesting down there.” She winked and exited.
“Maybe you’ll find something interesting.” I mocked her.
I sat silently, staring blankly at my small bookshelf.
“I guess I better get this over with.”

After what seemed like forever, I finally finished the basement. It consisted of lots of dusting and sweeping.
“I am never agreeing to do this again.” I thought out loud.
In the mist of wiping the dust off my hands, I came to a realization. The room in the back. Butterflies formed in my stomach, and a sense of sadness came upon me. I wiped my hands on my jeans and started walking slowly towards the room, the sound of my footsteps echoing throughout the basement. Sweat was forming on my forehead, and my heartbeat quickened. Before I revealed myself to the room, I closed my eyes and sighed.

“Study the greats. If music is your true passion, analyze those who influences you. Pay attention to their sound, the lyrics they sing, and how they sing them. Then start to form your own sound. I believe in you, Alissa. If music is what you desire, don’t let it fail. Go for it, baby.” I listened to the advice my dad was telling me.
“Thanks dad.” I gave him a tight hug.
“Now here’s how you can improve on playing the guitar.”

I opened my eyes. Stepping into the room, I looked at the instruments. I haven’t been in this room, or touched these instruments since he died of cancer. That was two years ago, when I was 16.
I spent about an hour reading his lyrics and playing around with the instruments. I sat on the stool in front of the keyboard and closed my eyes.
“If music is what you desire, don’t let it fail.”
I opened my eyes again and noticed a box. There was something written on it, it said “my music.” It was my father’s handwriting. I kneeled down to the box and began to open it. Inside the box was an old, brown record player. Next to it was a few vinyl records. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” caught my attention and I smiled. I imagined my father and I doing the choreography for Thriller, we could never get it right. I chuckled and began to trace over the record player.
“Don’t let it fail.”
I looked up and smiled. “I won’t let it fail, daddy.”
“Alissa, I’m back sweetie!”
I picked up the box, and took one last look at the room. I turned out the lights and made my way upstairs.
“Mom, look at what I found!”