on Keeping in Touch
Spring Break 2016

He was telling me about the ideal progression of stock-to-bond ratios in my investment portfolio, and about the necessity of long-term life insurance, as he was realizing now, and about a thousand other abstract concepts and distant, sterile words that seemed foreign to normal conversations with my father.

We were lying side by side on my twin childhood bed — white canopy above us, two dark cherry posts at our feet, and one blue horse (Bluebell) at our heads, peering out from the pile of pillows propping us up. He was wearing one of his eighteen different work clothing combinations. (As any logical person does, he had calculated how many variations he could make with his pastel Oxford button-downs and variety of neutral-shaded Dockers, and that number of combinations increased exponentially when his collection of hundreds of Jerry Garcia ties was factored in). On this particular day, he had gone with the white Oxford, the khaki-colored Dockers, and the tie I had chosen from the spread on his chair that morning — a mix of swirling crimson, chestnut, and eggplant.

His feet were crossed, as they usually were, and he left one hand behind his head to support the deteriorating muscles in his neck, the other hand free, to move around and support the personalized lecture he was giving me about finances and how to do them when he was gone.

My notebook and pen lay tucked between my thighs, and as helpful as I knew it would have been to take notes on all the terminology my father was gently clouding the air with, this was one of those moments I wanted to take in fully — to remember. The sound of his baritone voice, which I knew was quickly slowly fading to a whisper, the gentle rustling of my duvet cover as his restless feet brushed back and forth, which I also knew wouldn’t last forever, the professorial gesturing of his dry hands, gold wedding band a blur, the tickle of his beard against my forehead when I snuggled in close.

His head was resting on a lock of my hair and it was pulling but I didn’t dare move it. I didn’t dare disturb the sanctity of this moment, even if we were just talking about personal finances and wills and all the important stuff that wasn’t important.

I asked a few questions about the the few parts I had attempted to absorb, and when he had finished answering them and assured me that he would write it all down in an email and send it to me and that I would figure it all out because I was smart, we fell silent for a moment. We both breathed in — me deeper than he was able — and looked up, frantically searching my plain white ceiling for an explanation about why this was happening to us, or maybe for the words to express how much we meant to one another. But I had already had my share of moments like this since his terminal ALS diagnosis almost two months ago. I had quickly learned that there is one arena where spoken language falls short. And that is in its ability to capture the gravity and meaning and meaninglessness of situations like ours.

I could feel him glancing at me, so I kept my tears — the ones marching to fill my eyes — at bay. His gaze returned up to the ceiling.

Then, as though it were a normal topic of conversation, he suddenly stated that if he could find a way to come back to me, he would. He said he didn’t know what would happen when he experienced his inevitable and steadily-approaching end. I asked him if he was afraid — he calmly said no, he had no regrets and had lived a full life. I didn’t understand how that was possible at only fifty-eight years but I didn’t interrupt. He said if he could, he would come back to visit me, maybe as a ghost, but probably through music. He said if I ever heard a song we used to listen to together — like while we were finding the “sweet spot” between the speakers in our living room or road tripping out West or dancing in the kitchen during Sunday morning pancakes or exchanging new finds via iMessage while I was traveling or away at school — that it would be him, and I would know.

This brought a small laugh out of me — a laugh of overwhelming disbelief, deep appreciation, and premature nostalgia for memories of him — all folded up and packaged into a neat little exhalation of air, normally reserved for situations so unlike this one.

A year and a half later, I can’t think of a day when I’m not reminded of that conversation. On my way to work, Aretha Franklin comes on the radio. When I rush into the dining hall right before lunch is put away, I’m met with the last of the onion rings and Bruce Springsteen blasting. As I hug my ankles, stretching side to side after a workout class, Neil Young emerges for a cool-down song. As I meander down the sidewalk, checking items off my packing list, Marvin Gaye seeps through the outdoor speakers of the shopping outlet. When I finally sit down to study, Spotify brings up my summer rewind and it’s full of Gil Scott-Heron. When I flip on NPR as I cook dinner with my suite, they’re doing a piece about Fela Kuti, for whom my father named our dog. In the waiting room of the doctor’s office, Summer in the City floats to me and interrupts my concentration as I fill out the clipboard of paperwork.

Some days, I think about my dad’s calculation of possible work clothing combinations, and run my own calculations about how many songs we must’ve shared together in the twenty-one years I knew him, and the high probability that with all those options, the song I happen to be hearing at a particular moment is likely nothing more than a statistical coincidence. But other days, I think about how my father was someone who did what he said he would, and I arrive at the conclusion that it’s equally likely, if not more likely, that the particularly song I’m hearing at a particular moment is his doing. That maybe, just maybe, he’s keeping in touch in the way he’s always known how.

middcollective

A group of friends striving to stay creative after college.

Georgia Grace Edwards

Written by

or “Geeg.” I’m from the Appalachian Mountains, currently residing at the foothills of the Giant Mountains in Czechia. Forever finding my wings on the way down.

middcollective

A group of friends striving to stay creative after college.

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