I shamefully abandoned my blog. I’ll never been one of those dedicated writers because I write for reasons not well suited for blogging. I wish I could be one of those folks that aims for a post a week with 500 or 50,000 hits. But alas, I’m just a run of the mill writer who needs some verbal vomit space every once and awhile.
This weekend I went to my first big music festival without my Dad. I woke up to the sound of my Dad’s mandolin in the room next door, but the mandolin played a sweet melody by hands still warm with life. I walked in the adjoining hotel room to see a grown man smiling through tears as he plucked out a melody worthy of serenading angels (hopefully, my Dad). It sounded beautiful. It felt lonely.
We also had the experience of being treated poorly at the festival. This would have never happened with my Dad there. He didn’t need to use prestige, connections or power to make people treat folks right. His very presence in a room commanded that people treat others with more respect and kindness. Not just towards him, but he raised the bar for everyone’s interactions with each other.
I never imagined that I could still miss him so much. I never knew that seeing my brother and his wife pregnant again could fill me with the hope of new life, and the dismay of how randomly cruel it can be. Their new child is expected to be here on the anniversary of my Dad’s passing. My dad should have met this baby; he should have been able to sing her to sleep at night too. I never imagined his life could be cut so short or loss could cut so deep.
At the end of the weekend, we listened to some great music and hugged lots of friends. It’s wasn’t necessarily easy or graceful, but we survived. Sometimes surviving counts as success. As I was once promised, it never hurts less; it just hurts less often.