Little Love Letters Disguised as Playlists

By Heather Hattie-Mae Mahaney

For as long as I can remember, music was our language.

My late husband used to make me mixed tapes — carefully crafted collections of songs that somehow said all the things we did not need to speak aloud - things that we felt when the music played. His love for music ran deep, across every genre, and it was something we shared since childhood. I inherited it from my mother; he from his stepmother. Both women filled our homes with melodies.

In high school, he carried around in his Monte Carlo SS a cassette tape case full of his favorite music. He took great care of it. That tape case came with us to Alaska—one of his most treasured possessions.

Music shaped both our upbringings. My own home was always full of sound – that house pulsed with rhythm. Notes of The Dr Hook Songbook – ‘When You’re In Love with A Beautiful Woman’ danced through every room. I have so many fond memories of my mother — equally enchanted by melody and meaning. She had an ear for brilliance before the world caught on, like Eric Church back when he sang gospel. She would play music that felt like buried treasure, the kind that changed you in your bones.

She would blast music while she cleaned, even during our nap time. I learned to sleep through anything. Our house was always filled with singing and dancing — musically perfect in its harmony.

My husband loved that kind of environment too. His stepmother’s stereo system could fill their A-frame house with melodies. They shared a musical bond, delighting in every note. He would tell me about them sitting in their home listening for hours to music. Those were cherished memories.

When we bought his red Ford F-350, the first thing he had to get right was the stereo – he loved that truck. His stereo system was always state-of-the art. After he passed, the new owner asked about the truck’s history. All I could tell him was that the sound system was top-of-the-line, and the playlists? Impeccable.

It was the same when we bought our first home computer. He would spend hours organizing his playlists, burning CDs, naming each one: Heather’s Music, Heather’s Country Tunes, Heather’s Road Trip. Little love letters disguised as playlists.

My car became a jukebox of memories — filled with country artists, oldies, voices like Lionel Richie and Stevie Nicks, each one telling our story. I would drive for miles with the windows down, his music riding shotgun. Every road trip was a concert of love.

He had an extensive Apple Music library — hundreds of playlists, hours upon hours of artists, each curated with the care of a collector. I once bought him an iPod — a compact silver vault he would fill with over 300 songs. I would surprise him with Apple gift cards so he could add more.

The idea of discovering just one more song, one more artist that stirred something in him — it thrilled him. Music was his refuge and his joy.

Through years of building a life together — living on very little — music was our support system. When we had nothing, we had music. When we were homesick for Maine, music comforted us. On sunny days we would drive around Anchorage or down to the Kenai, stereo on, spirits lifted. Even on the fishing boat, music played — our adventures always had a soundtrack. For our wedding, his one job was to make a CD. He loved choosing the songs — so many from our journey that one disc could barely contain them. It took him over a week to settle on the finalversion. He could have made two or three, easily.

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Later in life, when youth had faded, music meant even more. During the quiet battles, when words failed and fear crept in — in hospital rooms full of machines and too-bright lights — I would slip in his earbuds and press play. It was our way of shutting out the world.

The music would carry him somewhere softer, somewhere sacred — where only melody and memory existed. I would hold him as he drifted. I would tell him to stay present with the music and rest.

He did not just listen to music — he revered it. And we reveled in it together. I remember sitting in our first one-bedroom apartment, listening to Eric Clapton’s Crossroads. Two souls connected by rhythm and harmony, bonded by the unspoken promise that the right song could heal anything — even just for a little while.

Those days feel far away now. But I hold onto them — the simpler times when all we needed was music and each other to get through. We were unstoppable. We stepped to our own tune. Forever and always, I relive those days in my heart. I am grateful to have lived in that music. Even now, years later, I still listen to the CDs he made for me. The plastic cases are worn. The Sharpie ink is fading. But the music is still alive — still whispering the words we once lived.

For over three decades, we shared the harmony of music — something so simple, yet so profoundly present in our lives. I dream of him dancing with my mother in heaven, waiting for the day I will rejoin them, where our favorite songs never end.

Love, like music, lingers in the quiet places — long after the last note fades.

About the Author

Heather “Hattie-Mae” Mahaney lives in Anchorage, Alaska, where she cherishes music, memory, and the love she shared with her late husband. Born and raised in Aroostook County in Northern Maine, she graduated from Central Aroostook High School, where she met her husband. In 1993, the couple moved to Anchorage, Alaska, in search of opportunity and adventure—and they lived the Alaska Dream for more than three decades. To Heather, music is about memory, love, loss, and the deeply human way we hold on to those we’ve lost.