It is time to visit Gilda. A few things bother me deeply, feelings I struggle to codify. It’s the curse of being Scorpio, I tell myself. Feelings are never easy. They sit on my chest or get stuck in my throat. Sometimes they dance on the lines of my forehead as I struggle to find the right words.
Small decisions were made. I don’t want to be home when it’s my father’s birthday when the entire family descends. They do this because it is assumed he won’t see another. I can hear my Mother playing piano poorly and know she is grateful for every moment with the old man. She loves him so much and would fight death itself if she could. I am more interested in having a conversation with death as opposed to anyone it might be taking. I won’t be here for his birthday, or mine or Christmas either.
Perhaps the truth is I have been separating myself from them for so long, my father especially, even though I am convinced he might outlive me. When I see how my mother loves him it makes me question everything. My parents are my biggest triggers, this I know and spending time with them causes all manner of thoughts and feelings I can do without.
I need a bigger purpose I can wrap music and words around. All this near death emotions are rattling me. I know what endings feel like but lingering on a knife edge for this long makes me want to shout, ‘Go old man. Embrace death and leave us!’ It sounds cold and cruel doesn’t it? Perhaps, because I would gallop towards death, or this is what I tell myself. I love no one that much to stay or fight for them. No one in my personal life that is. I can deal with endings, they are familiar. As I usually leave before anyone or anything can injure beyond repair.
My father wakes up every day knowing my Mother loves him. How does she do that? Where does that certainty come from? And what is the price one must pay for it? And can I ? Would anyone do that for me?
I need Gilda, the sun and the sea. If a bigger purpose does not find me I will create one and leave when I am ready. Writing everyday helps. I no longer needing to explain myself to anyone, the reasons for my silence or even joy. These feelings are all mine. This body, this heart, my mind. And when I am ready music will come pouring out of me. It always does. I have written a song for my father and his passing already. Music always seems to be twenty steps ahead of where I am. But not every song written needs to be sung.