Don’t Know Why . . .

 

After my mother died, I went into an emotional tailspin regarding plans for her wake, a grim task made easier by a good friend of mine that owned a funeral home and ended up directing the services.
My main problem was the music for the wake; it had to be just right.

I wanted no liturgical dirges that meant absolutely nothing to my mother.
I felt so strongly about it that it actually surprised me as I began thinking about all the musical possibilities.
My mom was the one that gave me the gift, the fire, whatever you choose to call it and I felt an almost desperate need to return the favor.

Hell, music had, in essence, brought my wife to me—it just doesn’t get any better than that.

Most songs were picked for particular reasons: Danny Boy (Bill Evans solo piano version), because it was a song her father used to sing to her and she really loved it.
Several Scott Joplin rags (strange, I know) because she’d spent a number of years trying to learn the Maple Leaf Rag, a difficult piece that would eventually elude her aging fingers.
I learned the piece years ago but never played it for her…a sadly missed opportunity.
I still play it today and wonder if I’m not really just playing it for her.

There was one song in particular that touched me in a magical way.
Thinking about it now, it was an epiphany of sorts.

It was for me, the perfect combination of words and music that ultimately told my mom and dad’s story.
I tried explaining my interpretation of it to several friends that I knew would honestly listen; some got it, some didn’t.

“I don’t know why” is a song by singer/songwriter Shawn Colvin.
In my mind, the song had two very distinct parts: the first being that of a woman realizing her mind/memory is in deep trouble and she wants badly to explain what she’s feeling, the second being that of a husband/caregiver that wants his wife to know he will always
be there for her.
Take note that only the ‘wife’ mentions music.

It’s a unique spin on the lyrics and mine alone…unless, of course, Colvin wrote it with that specific scenario in mind. I seriously doubt it.
In any case, the song reaches to a depth inside me that I really didn’t know existed.
WordPress doesn’t allow for the playing of music (at least not easily)
If you’d like to hear the tune, download it on Itunes or contact me directly.
My original intention was to have you play it and read along.
Oh, well…in a perfect world.

 

 

I don’t know why – Shawn Colvin

(Wife)

I don’t know why
The sky is so blue
And I don’t know why
I’m so in love with you
But if there were no music
Then I would not get through
I don’t know why
I know these things, but I do

(Husband/Caregiver)

I don’t know why
But somewhere dreams come true
And I don’t know where
But there will be a place for you
And every time you look that way
I would lay down my life for you
I don’t know why
I know these things, but I do

I don’t know why
But some are going to make you cry
And I don’t know how
But I will get you by, I will try
They’re not trying to cause you pain
They’re just afraid of loving you
I don’t know why
I know these things, but I do

(Wife)

I don’t know why
The trees grow so tall
And I don’t know why
I don’t know anything at all
But if there were no music
Then I would not get through
I don’t know why
I know these things, but I do
I don’t know why
I know these things, but I do

 

Saturdays

Several years ago I took an online course called F2K.
It was free and I thought, ah, what the hell.
I met many wonderful (and not so wonderful) people there, WC being one of the gems.
We had many assignments regarding the craft of fiction.
Some exercises were fun while others would make you wish you never signed up.
I mention this because I found a post I did for F2K when we were working on point of view (POV). I wrote this post from the viewpoint of my father on the day we moved him from his house to the assisted living facility.
It was a brutal day for me emotionally so I really can’t imagine what it must have been like for him.
That day, I know he still had some cookies left.
Maybe that’s what made it so damn heartbreaking.
I remember telling myself, “you’re doing it for him, Michael–you’re doing it for him…”
It still felt wrong to me but I knew there was really no other way.
A word to the wise: this is not a real uplifting post.
*************************************************************

Saturdays

It was Saturday, my favorite day of the week.
Today, however, would be an exception.
A cold and steady rain was falling and it somehow made my heart even sadder.
I was leaving my home of fifty years and I must say it was never my idea. It was all theirs.

My children had decided it was best that I live somewhere I could be safe, away from all dangers and open doors; away from the life I had once upon a time called my own.

They say I’m confused.
Maybe I am.
I forget things but doesn’t everyone now and then?

But I remember Saturday mornings, making good old-fashioned oatmeal on the stove before the kids got up out of bed. God, how I loved to do that!
I can still see the box, with the kindly gentleman on the label who always reminded me of George Washington, peering out at me from inside the darkened cabinet.

I guess those were simpler times uncomplicated by my forgetful and crumbling mind.

I could take care of myself then.
Now, no one thinks I can anymore and it makes me angry.

Today, I was just in the way; like I always am these days.
All I could do was watch as they loaded memory after memory into some big yellow truck that would take me far from this place that I still loved.
I remained quiet through most of this but was angry with myself for not having the strength left to just say no.

The grandfather clock in the hall just announced the hour.
I never liked the sound of the old man’s chimes but today they sound sweet and lovely as if to soothe the heart that’s breaking deep inside my chest.

Standing in my bedroom, I hear my son’s voice call to me from downstairs, “Dad, it’s time to go.”

As I wrap my trembling hands around the dark mahogany bedpost, for what will be the very last time, a solitary tear trickles down my worn and tired face because I could still remember just how good Saturdays used to be.