An agitated, grey man is staring, confused at a post box. His pet spaniel is stubbornly pulling at its lead, trying to continue its walk, but is being firmly ignored.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks me, pointing at a plain white sticker stuck above the postal slot, with the words ‘Listen to Elliott Smith,’ carefully hand-written in black ink.
I could enlighten him. Instead, I offer half a smile and shake my head. If he was paying attention, he would have noticed that there are several post boxes, and the occasional bus stop, similarly labelled. They all have different text, such as ‘The Flaming Lips are Hot’, ‘Take the Skinheads Bowling’, and ‘Pulp, A Different Class’. You get the idea, and yes, I am the phantom labeller. It’s actual quite an art, you need to watch the word count and make sure the content makes sense.
I’m not feeling great this morning, my head is pounding like a Motörhead bass riff, my bloodshot eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses. I over-indulged last night, now I’m paying the cost. It was Father’s Day yesterday, and I decided to honour Dad’s memory with his favourite whisky, followed by some petty vandalism. Actually, vandalism sounds too negative, consider it more like a music missionary spreading the gospel. Dad the guru, me the disciple. Seems a bit random, I suppose, but last night it felt totally appropriate.
I was way too young when Dad went. It’s rubbish, but I struggle to properly remember him now. My memory of Dad has become blurred and hazy, like a tatty, sun-bleached album cover. But I remember his music, it followed him everywhere; he seemed to have an aversion to the sound of silence. I don’t linger there, but I do still recall fragments of sick Dad, his mental struggle when the illness took hold and the medication fogged his mind. His solution was to litter the house with post it notes, containing prompts, important numbers and dates. I’ve still got the note he wrote with my birthday on.
Ever feel like you’ve been cheated? I do. Growing up, most of my peers seemed to be living a sunny pop tune life. Mine was like being in a bar band, stuck playing to bored disco fans. I never got football in the park, a comfortable pint together at the pub, or even a shared gig, (I’d have loved that). His cherished music collection was really all he left behind, well, apart from me and Mum.
I must have been in my early teens, seeking some form of connection, I guess, when I decided to give these holy relics a listen. I had to be careful, certain tunes would make mum cry. Stick on ‘A Design for Life,’ by Manic Street Preachers, to name just one song, and she’s lost. Despite developing the weirdest music taste of all the kids in my school, I am glad I resurrected his record collection. I got closer to the man through his beloved albums. The early, angry Heavy Metal and Punk years. The obsessive nineties, Indie deep dive. The surprising love of classic Country. He had a wide taste, but mostly he was a lyrics man.
If I look at my actions rationally and now sober, a playlist of Dad’s music on social media, would have been easier, and I may do that. But I enjoyed the randomness of my sticker blitzkrieg. If just one person decides to investigate one of Dad’s favourites, a little piece of him remains.
I watch the dog-walker fussily begin picking off the label with his fingernails, obviously not a fan of Indie rock. I walk on by, heading to the local shop to buy something cold, sugary, and caffeinated to drink. I need to recover quickly I have a busy day scheduled. I will be heading back this way later today to catch a coach to London for a new job, and a flat share with some fellow misfits. Mum is happy sad, but she knows I need to live my own song, even if it ends up a forgotten B-side.
The man in the corner shop, barely acknowledges me as hands me my change, but as I turn to leave, he bursts out laughing.
“Do you know you’ve got some stickers on your back?” he asks. I didn’t, but I think I know the culprit.
“Really, what do they say?” I reply, moving closer so he can take a better look.
“One says, ‘phone your Mum’, and the other says, ‘eat some vegetables’,” he answers with a smirk. I hadn’t noticed the stickers when I put on my coat, she must have stuck them on before we said our goodbyes. Classic Mum manoeuvre, gentle humour, jamming with maternal love. What with the impending move and a bad case of dead Dad blues, I suspect I may have been neglecting her. As a small gesture, I buy a box of chocolates for her to discover when she returns. I plan to label them with a sticker saying, ‘Better than vegetables!’.
It’s no longer Fathers’ Day, but before I leave, I will also redo the label on the post box. Everyone should listen to Elliott Smith. Dad did, and thanks to him, so do I.
Image: A spiral of multicoloured post it notes from pixabay.com
literally stories 
Joel
It’s hard to remember a piece that includes both parents so warmly. Post it notes aren’t usually so personal. Clever and gentle without sentimentality getting involved.
Leila
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Shucks, thank you Leila. I must admit I was slightly anxious about the comments the story would receive, but everyone seems very encouraging.
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A lovely piece, full of warmth and humour. I’d like to think the son ‘n heir would commemorate my passing in a similar way!
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Thanks Steven, me too.
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We don’t do a lot of what I would term ‘sweet’ stories, they do struggle to get past the dragons at the gate but this has that indefinable something that carried it through. I think some of it was the tone, the MC was very likeable and there was humour in it and reality. A super read – thank you. dd
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Diane, you are too kind. Thank you.
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Hi Joel,
I have a love for music and enjoy any recommendation. Just found the group ‘Cake’ and heard their version of ‘Sad Songs And Waltzes’ – Brilliant!
I know nothing of Elliott Smith but will have a listen.
Great tone to this. In keeping his father’s memory alive, he was also keeping the music alive.
A cracking wee story!!
Hugh
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Hi Hugh,
I like cake too. The band and the foodstuff. Elliott Smith is great, but I should warn you rather sad.
Best wishes,
Joel
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Wonderfully poignant while avoiding being schmaltzy. The surprise at the end works well. “If just one person decides to investigate one of Dad’s favorites, a little piece of him remains.” An excellent line and an even better sentiment.
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Thank you David. I think I may get “Wonderfully poignant while avoiding being schmaltzy,” printed on a t-shirt 🙂
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Joel,
A delight!
I left several Post-its around the apartment for myself. I hope I remember who posted them and what they mean, when or if I read them. — gerry
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Cheers Gerry. I have the same problem, so switched to phone reminders which is even more confusing! Although a story just made out of post it notes may be an idea.
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I wsn’t sure so I checked Mr. Smith spent much of his career in my home town Portland Oregon. Since I checked out of popular music by the early ’60s I never heard his playing, but he was a big deal here.
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Hi Doug, I’d have loved to have heard Elliott Smith live, but sadly never got the chance. There’s a lot of sixties influences in his work, so you may enjoy his music.
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Beautiful and smart – I absolutely loved this. Not only is the premise superb, but there is a real languid and gorgeous warmth this story. I also loved the song titles peppered throughout – ‘the sound of silence’, ‘walk on by’, and I am sure many others.
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Hi Paul, chuffed you noticed the song and band references 🙂 Thank you for your lovely comments
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What a fabulous way to showcase two legends Joel – enjoyed getting to know both. Thank you!
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A Beautifully Bittersweet Ode to Music, Memory, and Fatherhood
This story is a quiet triumph—a tender, melancholic, and deeply human reflection on grief, identity, and the healing power of music. Told through the lens of a hungover wanderer with a roll of stickers and a heart full of loss, it captures the aching beauty of remembering someone not through grand gestures, but through the small, strange rituals that make us feel close to them.
The protagonist’s sticker campaign—cryptic, musical, and oddly poetic—is a brilliant metaphor for the way we try to preserve the essence of those we’ve lost. It’s not just about recommending bands; it’s about leaving breadcrumbs of a life once lived, hoping someone might follow them and find meaning. The juxtaposition of the mundane (a confused man at a post box, a stubborn spaniel) with the profound (a son’s tribute to his father’s musical legacy) is handled with subtlety and grace.
The writing is rich with emotional texture. Lines like “my memory of Dad has become blurred and hazy, like a tatty, sun-bleached album cover” are heartbreakingly evocative. The story doesn’t wallow in grief—it dances with it, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes defiantly, always honestly. The humour is gentle and well-placed, especially in the final scene with the mother’s stealthy sticker sabotage. It’s a moment that encapsulates the story’s heart: love expressed through quirky, personal gestures.
What makes this piece truly special is its authenticity. It doesn’t try to be profound—it just is. It speaks to anyone who’s ever tried to make sense of loss, who’s found solace in a song, or who’s felt the bittersweet tug of moving forward while carrying someone with them.
In short, this story is a love letter—to a father, to music, and to the quiet ways we keep people alive in our hearts. It deserves to be read, shared, and remembered—like a great album passed down through generations.
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Wow, thank you so much Thaner. I’m at a bit of loss how to reply, but I’m very touched by your response.
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Thank you Karen for such positive feedback.
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Hi Joel, I liked the humor and easy flow of this piece. The stickers are a cheery mystery. This story gave us that little slice of life, even with all the ups and downs, there is music.
I love thinking about, listening to my dad’s music – the big bands of the 1940s. Nice memories of him whistling tunes and tapping a beat on the steering wheel of the car… Thanks for this, and for giving me a memory of my father.
my best, Maria
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Hi Maria,
Thank you. I’m glad the story triggered happy memories of your Dad.
Best wishes,
Joel
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