Too often, my time is wasted, dissecting the minutia of insignificance. There has literally been no need for this past year of wanton words. Entire paragraphs dedicated to the nothingness that is personal opinion, personal taste. Genres fall and fail to impress even the most discerning palates. We are not scholars. Music has always been about so much more than just the sound to me. This is blood, this is feeling, this is the family way which we had established all those years ago. This is all I know.
Are you addicted? Do you have a case that demands attention? Am I to blame, should I stop rocking and just allow you to take the reigns? Your family crest is infinite. I trust in each and every drop of blood that your father laid for you and your sisters, and your brothers. Across the threshold, we are all smothered. We are together. I saw my father as a towering example of fortitude and fortuitousness. I saw him as a drunken Pirate. He didn't even know it, I wonder if he still doesn't...? He saw my mother, Post-Diagnosis. He saw her, he caught her scent. It was trapped in the pillowcases, the bath towels, the fabric on her favorite dining room chair. It was all around him. He could never forget how much she meant, how much she still means. She is seeing her life for the first time. For the first time, she is crying, she is allowing herself to cry, she is crying. Each and every drop, it falls against her better judgements. Like, kid, you are doing everything right... This time. Just keep breathing, keep giving, keep reliving those same four awkward moments over and over and over in your head.
Remember, Cat Stevens never left the stereo? We would drink and sing for hours, well into the night, every night. You wore that bib with shame on your face, every night. And every night I would tell you how I was never ashamed of you, could never be ashamed of you. As a matter of fact, you might be the only thing giving me strength, the only thing guiding me through this tumult that is existence. I can still hear your voice. It carries on the wind. "Ooh baby, baby, it's a wild world." I will always remember the smiles those snuck cigarettes would bring you. A towel under the door, just like college. Good thing the old man is dead drunk. We could get away with anything. As he slumbers on the couch, we figure out the great truths of the world. In song, in smoke, in Schnapps, we are the last two philosophers alive in this despicable state that is Florida. I wouldn't trade that year for anything.
Some memories keep us stable, some raise in us the fear. The memories I hold in the hole in my heart, I hold them so fucking dear. This is all for you. I am dedicated to the continued praise of your name. If there is a god, I am sure he's probably doing pretty well having you around. Nobody could ask for a better friend.