Listen First – Before you read
“Saturn” — A Song About Things We Cannot Return To
Saturn
Some songs are not meant to be understood immediately.
They are meant to be entered.
Before you read anything below, let this track play once from beginning to end.
Not as background music — but as space.
You don’t need to analyze it.
You don’t need to name what you feel.
Just let it exist in the room with you.
And when it ends, come back to this text.
The first time I heard Saturn, I kept asking myself one question.
Why do we try so hard to keep the people we’ve already lost?
The piano falls gently.
The cello holds it like something fragile that refuses to break.
The song doesn’t unfold like a story.
It breathes — slowly, almost as if time itself is hesitating.
And in that silence, I opened my contacts.
Scrolled down.
Stopped.
That name was still there.
My grandmother.
She passed away almost a year ago.
And I still haven’t deleted her number.
Not because I expect her to answer.
But because every time I pass her name, my finger hesitates.
Like walking past a house that’s been dark for a long time.
You know no one is inside anymore.
Still, you glance at the window anyway.
She left me a voice message.
38 seconds.
It’s still there.
Still marked as unplayed.
I never pressed play.
And somehow, it never disappeared.
Life has a way of pushing you forward.
Fast enough that you almost forget someone is gone.
Until an ordinary afternoon interrupts you.
I was in a supermarket when I saw someone from behind.
White hair.
A slightly bent back.
For a second, my body moved before my mind did.
I opened WhatsApp.
Started typing.
Grandma, I just saw someone who looked like you.
I finished the sentence.
My finger stayed on the send button.
Then I deleted it.
One letter at a time.
Locked my phone.
Kept walking.
Later, I listened to Saturn again.
Ryan O’Neal once wrote:
“With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite.”
I looked at the 38-second voice note again.
Still didn’t press play.
Maybe some things are not held onto because we cannot let go.
But because we never learned how.
On my way home today, I opened my contacts again.
Her name was still there.
I locked my phone.
Looked up.
Ending
The night was quiet.
Like Saturn — distant, suspended, and unresponsive to anything that tries to reach it.
The song slowly came to an end in my headphones.
The last note fell softly, like a star losing its brightness rather than disappearing.
Far away.
But still there.
Somewhere beyond reach.
Somewhere that still exists.
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