My memories are all in sound.
Pink Floyd's über classic, The Dark Side of the Moon, turned 45 yesterday. When it plays, I am always taken to our home when I was little. Sleeping family-slumber-party style in the living room. My dad put this record on. We just listened. The proper way. The only movement being sound waves.
These memories are a kindness. Small graces.
The connection with my dad was lost for a long time. Through that period, it was easy to hear everything, played backwards, as "Paul is dead." To let bitterness grow from sorrow. Muting any sweet sounds. Hearing only scratched records.
But I put on Pink Floyd or George Harrison and Eric Clapton, and I am taken back to the little listening parties. The father and daughter. The loving and tender moments. The two like-souls who have the same trouble with vocals. And I remember how much I love and need my dad. Even if I'm still a bit of a crummy daughter with old habits still to be broken.
So, I am thankful for a heart that's been tenderized. For my parents' love of music. For all the sad songs that say so much. For nights on the living room floor and breathing in the air. For sounds when words won't come. For patched connections.
For the remastering of our album. I love you, Dad.