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The other evening, G and I went to see Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash movie. I was raised with Johnny Cash records playing in the background. My Dad loved his music. As I have matured, I find myself drawn to his intensity. I love singers that put 210% of themselves into their music. I want to feel the emotions they are communicating. That’s why I adore Billie Holiday, Janis Joplin and Johnny Cash. I feel everything they sing.
I won’t bother to critique the movie. The movie isn’t the point. The point is the emotion, and I sat there at one point crying like a baby. I was literally shaking I was crying so hard. G became really concerned and I had to explain that I was crying because I miss my Dad so much. I really wish he could have been there to watch the movie with me. I wish he were still around. He died just before I really became interesting. Or, maybe it’s fair to say, I became more interesting because he died. I don’t know. It seems to me that when a parent dies, one really has to mature, no matter how young they are. Apparently, it was my time. I still can’t believe it’s been 21 years. I’ve lived without him for four more years than I lived with him. And I still cry because I miss him so much. I do so much that I know he’d love to do with me and I weep for the missed opportunities.
On the other hand, maybe I’m more the person I have become because he is a part of me in a way he could never have been had he remained alive. I don’t know. It doesn’t replace the sadness, but I do feel like he’d be proud of me. I think he’d smile watching me build and repair things. And maybe I do these things better because he is within me, rather than without.
I love you, Dad.
I won’t bother to critique the movie. The movie isn’t the point. The point is the emotion, and I sat there at one point crying like a baby. I was literally shaking I was crying so hard. G became really concerned and I had to explain that I was crying because I miss my Dad so much. I really wish he could have been there to watch the movie with me. I wish he were still around. He died just before I really became interesting. Or, maybe it’s fair to say, I became more interesting because he died. I don’t know. It seems to me that when a parent dies, one really has to mature, no matter how young they are. Apparently, it was my time. I still can’t believe it’s been 21 years. I’ve lived without him for four more years than I lived with him. And I still cry because I miss him so much. I do so much that I know he’d love to do with me and I weep for the missed opportunities.
On the other hand, maybe I’m more the person I have become because he is a part of me in a way he could never have been had he remained alive. I don’t know. It doesn’t replace the sadness, but I do feel like he’d be proud of me. I think he’d smile watching me build and repair things. And maybe I do these things better because he is within me, rather than without.
I love you, Dad.
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