“It’s nothing important, just the sound of a young girl’s voice harmonizing with the hum of an electric fan.”

No, you don’t understand.

That’s all of my best memories of childhood.

That would be like saying,

“It’s nothing important, it’s just the pattern of the ceiling tiles in the only room where my grandmother ever watched over me as I fell asleep, when I was small.”

or, “it’s nothing important, just the way the breeze feels on my face and in my hair when we sat on the porch. It’s nothing important, just sound of the waves crashing on the shore. It’s nothing important, just the smell of the lake after rain.”