(no subject)
Seventy-five years ago today, my dad was born.
He's been dead for almost eight of those years. During the other sixty-seven, not a lot of questions were asked. The richness of his life was assumed as the foundation of his wisdom, respected, and treated with what sometimes bordered on blind faith. There's still quite a bit I don't know about him and his life. He had a whole family before ours, and they aren't far off - the people who still hold pieces of him that may or may not ever see the light of day again - but what we were left with is what we have preserved, perhaps in the best interest of our own hearts. I can be certain that music was consistently prevalent throughout the entirety of it, even before he ever played a note.
I like to think that I'll make it to at least that mark. Of course, we never know what will happen, and I try not to consider myself invincible (a common misconception in one's youth). But it makes me wonder how it felt to live through at least three very distinct eras in what is now considered twentieth-century history... whether the edges were too blurred to tell or if there is some kind of feeling you get when one era ends and another begins. I look forward to finding out.
Honestly, I wouldn't say that I wish I had asked more questions. I have no desire to devalue the experience that resulted from sharing the first eighteen years of my life with him by qualifying should-haves, would-haves, if-onlys. His visits in dreams have never been fraught with remorse. Coursing with the river of souls, which he had rather deftly navigated, does for me what turning against the current could never do, and I am ever grateful for what I learned of him by observation.
If more comes to me, I'll write it. This is the surface of dense depths, but merely a reflection and the honest divulgence thereof, and there is no cause to bleed; things never heal if one keeps picking at them.
Happy birthday to you. :)
Sunshine, stardust, rainbows and unicorns,
Sophie
He's been dead for almost eight of those years. During the other sixty-seven, not a lot of questions were asked. The richness of his life was assumed as the foundation of his wisdom, respected, and treated with what sometimes bordered on blind faith. There's still quite a bit I don't know about him and his life. He had a whole family before ours, and they aren't far off - the people who still hold pieces of him that may or may not ever see the light of day again - but what we were left with is what we have preserved, perhaps in the best interest of our own hearts. I can be certain that music was consistently prevalent throughout the entirety of it, even before he ever played a note.
I like to think that I'll make it to at least that mark. Of course, we never know what will happen, and I try not to consider myself invincible (a common misconception in one's youth). But it makes me wonder how it felt to live through at least three very distinct eras in what is now considered twentieth-century history... whether the edges were too blurred to tell or if there is some kind of feeling you get when one era ends and another begins. I look forward to finding out.
Honestly, I wouldn't say that I wish I had asked more questions. I have no desire to devalue the experience that resulted from sharing the first eighteen years of my life with him by qualifying should-haves, would-haves, if-onlys. His visits in dreams have never been fraught with remorse. Coursing with the river of souls, which he had rather deftly navigated, does for me what turning against the current could never do, and I am ever grateful for what I learned of him by observation.
If more comes to me, I'll write it. This is the surface of dense depths, but merely a reflection and the honest divulgence thereof, and there is no cause to bleed; things never heal if one keeps picking at them.
Happy birthday to you. :)
Sunshine, stardust, rainbows and unicorns,
Sophie