I can’t remember if I found out that dad’s heart had stopped during one of his procedures before or after the docs said he had pancreatic cancer but it impacted my view of what might happen.
That is because it had happened a year or two before we knew about the cancer and neither her nor mom had mentioned it.
I gave him hell for it and he shrugged it off.
“What is the problem? I didn’t die. Did you speak to your mother this way?”
I exploded and told him he was damn lucky I was in Dallas and not LA.
“Are you done? I am ok.”
Those of you who didn’t know him well don’t know how contradictory this was to me because if I had tried speaking like this as a kid I’d still be in orbit.
He didn’t yell back, he almost apologized and so I realize the old man slipped back into protecting me.
At The End Of The Day
That is the name of the song in the video above, it is by Erez Lev Ari and it is fits my mood. You can find the lyrics over here but if you don’t read Hebrew it might be a little challenging for you to read.
I’ll share a brief translation for you, it is not perfect but it is what you get.
If I were to forgive I’d be happy
If I were to run away I’d be “settled”
If I were breakable I’d be able to
If I were captivated I’d be dangerous
If I were shouting I’d stay
If I were quiet I’d fall asleep
If I were…
At the end of the day, it’s only me
And it’s only you and the kids and god,
And all the rest is nonsense
What was is what was so turn off the lights
And let’s go to sleep there’s a new day at the end of the night
Put myself out there a little bit in a couple of places I write in and realized how much honesty is missing and recognized not everyone wants that, let alone can handle it.
Maybe it is me or maybe it is not because the reality is I can discuss anything with anyone but I generally choose not to.
There are reasons why and they generally tie into a lack of trust or interest in sharing those things with specific people.
Not everyone cares or deserves to hear the truth and when you operate on a gut level you follow some things to the end of time.
Had a long talk with a boy who cannot understand how surreal some of this is for me and will not recognize how familiar these conversations are.
Except the last time I had it I sat in his chair and glared at a man who seemed incapable of understanding or so it seemed to my teenage self.
And now that I sit in his seat listening to complaints I once voiced be focused upon me while responding in a way that could only be more authentic if dad said the words himself.
Maybe he is, maybe his spirit has taken over my body.
It makes me wonder how much is transferred from generation to generation and if my great-grandfather would recognize the words and intonation.
Rumor has it if he saw me pound my fist upon the table that might be seen as familiar. Takes a long time to get me to that place, but it has happened.
Watched a show where a man who played a poet caught my eye over and over because I related so very much to some of what he said about life and writing.
He talked about the importance of writing the words down when the muse appears because otherwise they fly away like birds that have been freed from a cage.
Maybe that sounds silly and or ridiculous to some of you but I know it to be true. You cannot imagine how many times I hear the voice inside my head speak and I want to put down upon paper the words before they melt away.
Sometimes I hear music and I want to finish writing the symphony because I never know if what is trapped inside will be gold or junk.
Occasionally I’ll dictate into my phone or write down a few lines but that never guarantees I’ll be able to pick up the thread and write what I felt or saw at that particular moment.
Nor does it mean that I can only write when motivated because I know how to be the guy that takes a lunchbox to work each day and comes home with dirt under his fingernails.
I can be the blue collar writer.
I hear echoes of the future and ghosts of the past and wonder if my eyes are blurry or if I see an intersection down the road.