The bottle is empty. I’m still sober. The dawn intrudes, a welcome intrusion. I’m trying to piece it together. I imagined my father at the performance last night. There’s something in me that’s convinced sometime somewhere in his life he has been in Congress Hall. I rocked that fucker last night with every beat, with every pounding I was searching faces convinced the ghost of my father was staring back at me.
Thirty minutes before I went on a note had made its way backstage; some local security guy stopped me in the hall backstage saying, “Are you the one called Pip?”
“That would be correct,” I said.
He passed me a small envelope. I didn’t take it at first.
I asked him, “Who gave this to you?”
“An older looking woman,” he said, “she didn’t have a ticket, she passed it to my colleague outside.”
I’m staring at it now. It’s a picture of my father and my mother from 1989 taken after Vaclav Havel became president. Neither of them has ever mentioned to me that they were here together. What consumes me more than anything about the photograph is how full of life the two of them were. He’s cocky and she’s beaming. Obviously they’re playing to camera having a drink in times full of promise. All the note said was: he is missed by many, we share in your grief in ways you’ll never know; give my love to your mother- Petra. Some people are waking to greet the day in another city that I’m sure holds more secrets.
The bottle is empty. I’m still sober. The dawn intrudes, a welcome intrusion. I’m trying to piece it together. I imagined my father at the performance last night. There’s something in me that’s convinced sometime somewhere in his life he has been in Congress Hall. I rocked that fucker last night with every beat, with every pounding I was searching faces convinced the ghost of my father was staring back at me.
Thirty minutes before I went on a note had made its way backstage; some local security guy stopped me in the hall backstage saying, “Are you the one called Pip?”
“That would be correct,” I said.
He passed me a small envelope. I didn’t take it at first.
I asked him, “Who gave this to you?”
“An older looking woman,” he said, “she didn’t have a ticket, she passed it to my colleague outside.”
I’m staring at it now. It’s a picture of my father and my mother from 1989 taken after Vaclav Havel became president. Neither of them has ever mentioned to me that they were here together. What consumes me more than anything about the photograph is how full of life the two of them were. He’s cocky and she’s beaming. Obviously they’re playing to camera having a drink in times full of promise. All the note said was: he is missed by many, we share in your grief in ways you’ll never know; give my love to your mother- Petra. Some people are waking to greet the day in another city that I’m sure holds more secrets.
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