Driving through town this afternoon, I had to change stations on the radio. The song that came on did such a thorough job of transporting me back to 1987 and reviving long-gone emotions, I couldn’t even listen as far as the chorus.
This has happened to me before. It’s happened to all of us. But for me, it’s usually something heavy-hearted from Harry Nilsson that chokes me up. Today, it was Madonna’s song, Papa Don’t Preach that carried me back to my younger self.
“Papa I know you’re going to be upset, Cause I was always your little girl.”
The first time I heard this song, I was sixteen. And pregnant. Scared beyond comprehension and heartbroken over the disappointment I had brought to my parents.
I remember the phone call from Deb, my mom’s friend. She heard the song on the radio, and wondered if I had heard it too. She said it reminded her of me and my dad. She assured me that my parents loved me. This was hard for them too. And not to worry, they wouldn’t disown me. Then she told me when she was a teenager, she and her boyfriend snuck off and got married without telling anyone. When she came home, she was sure that her family would hate her.
“But they came around. Your folks will too.”
This 1987 phone call could have taken place last week. I was in my bedroom, leaning against the dresser and looking out the window as we chatted.
Hearing the poppy lyrics wasn’t the first time I’d thought of my dad today. He came to mind earlier in the day, while I was in the kitchen — trying to remember snippets of my sleep. Was it last night that he was in a dream? Perhaps the night before.
I married in 1987, gave birth to twins late that year. And as time passed, Dad and I healed our broken hearts and our relationship. When I was 28, he died — and my heart broke all over again.
Then, this evening, while walking with my dog, there was his memory again. I thought of all the times I had found wheel weights along the roadway. Each time, I pick them up and think back to my childhood when I would take them home to my dad. Now, as an adult, I still pick them up and take them home. Because they make me think of him. I have dozens of them in a bowl on my counter. My little collection of memories.
As I walked, I wondered to myself. Is it coincidence that I find these when I’m deep in thought. When I’m processing emotions or working through something stressful. Literally, I was wondering if finding these ugly, little chunks of lead had been my dad’s way of interrupting my thoughts and helping me find a moment of joy in an old, childhood memory. And there it was. Lying on the pavement, next to the curb. A small gray wheel weight. I picked it up and squeezed it hard. I blinked away the tears that wetted my eyes, looked at the sky and whispered, “Are you out there?”
It seems preposterous. It’s just coincidence. Isn’t it?
