Remembering the time I took K. to see Patty Griffin. Well, took her to *hear* Patty Griffin, K. being blind and all. We arrived early so we could find a place to sit. Patty comes on, all tumbling red curly hair and lamentation. Sorrow is something she knows about. You and I listened to her album Living With Ghosts over and over. I was excited to share her with K. Everything was fine until that high lonesome voice of hers started on Not Alone. I thought I was crying silently but K. felt something and turned her head toward me, opposite the stage. Are you crying? she asked. Unable to hear my nod she touched the side of my face and I nodded up and down, emphatically. I used to listen to this all the time, with C, I told her when I was able to speak. She held my hand for the rest of the song, squeezing at the part about love sometimes slipping away as fast as any fingers through your hands. Now K. has slipped away too, and all of this is just something else that happened to me that no one else knows or remembers.
Of course the memory led me to play the album. I thought I could have it on, low, in the background while I worked but no. Same with Foo Fighters. Same with Joni Mitchell. Same with REM. And Coldplay, of course. Haven’t tried Beastie Boys and probably won’t.
There is no way to describe crying every day in a way that is not boring.
I need new music, I told my husband. All of mine stops my heart. Yeah I noticed that, he said.