Why should I cry for you?
Why would you want me to?
What would it mean to say,
I loved you in my fashionable way?
~ Sting
Yesterday I was listening to a mix CD I’d just finished, containing some of my favorite classical music pieces. When the opening flute runs of Smetana’s Die Moldau (named for a Czechoslovakian river) began to play, I felt unexpected tears well up in my eyes. The last time I’d heard this piece was at my father’s funeral.
It’s always awkward when people find out that my dad is no longer living. Immediately their expression turns solemn and they say in a hushed tone, “I’m so sorry.” Awkward, because my face probably shows no sorrow or remorse, and what I’d like to tell them was, “Well, no big loss, really. And it was no wonder after the way he trashed his body with alcohol and cigarettes for the better part of his life.” I wasn’t close to my dad like other women…there were no “daddy’s little girl” moments, no butterfly kisses, no being read to in his lap, no father-daughter dance in high school. When I was little, playing with my Fisher-Price toy people, I didn’t even know what to make the “father” toy do, so I parked him at the kitchen table while the rest of the family got in the car and did stuff. I could list you a litany of his wrongdoings, but that’s not the point of this journal entry. I want to talk about one of the good memories.
It was my idea to play Die Moldau over the church’s PA system before the funeral Mass started, because it had been my father’s favorite symphonic piece. I had to edit the more loud and furious movements out of the recording so it would be more palatable and timely in the prelude of the service. I was standing up in the choir loft when I hit “play” on the tape recorder, and when the opening flute part began to trickle through the whispering voices below, I saw something really moving happen.
One by one, my siblings began to turn around and stare up at the source of the music. Some of them wore looks of wonder; others had tears trickling down their face. My sister who stood by my side gave me a wide-eyed smile and a thumbs-up. I knew what was going through all of our minds…this was the one song that represented the essence of our father that we could love. The part of him that was passionate about music and nature. He’d always explained, when he played Die Moldau for us, that the piece took you on a tiny stream's journey down from the mountains, becoming a wide river through peasant villages, and flowing onward to the sea. At the pinnacle of the piece, he would inevitably close his eyes, nod, and cry, “BEAUTIFUL!”
It’s miraculous and freeing when you can look back and take stock in the gifts, rather than dwell on the mistakes. And from this day forward, when I hear Die Moldau, I will always feel the best parts of my dad living on inside my heart.
Yesterday I was listening to a mix CD I’d just finished, containing some of my favorite classical music pieces. When the opening flute runs of Smetana’s Die Moldau (named for a Czechoslovakian river) began to play, I felt unexpected tears well up in my eyes. The last time I’d heard this piece was at my father’s funeral.
It’s always awkward when people find out that my dad is no longer living. Immediately their expression turns solemn and they say in a hushed tone, “I’m so sorry.” Awkward, because my face probably shows no sorrow or remorse, and what I’d like to tell them was, “Well, no big loss, really. And it was no wonder after the way he trashed his body with alcohol and cigarettes for the better part of his life.” I wasn’t close to my dad like other women…there were no “daddy’s little girl” moments, no butterfly kisses, no being read to in his lap, no father-daughter dance in high school. When I was little, playing with my Fisher-Price toy people, I didn’t even know what to make the “father” toy do, so I parked him at the kitchen table while the rest of the family got in the car and did stuff. I could list you a litany of his wrongdoings, but that’s not the point of this journal entry. I want to talk about one of the good memories.
It was my idea to play Die Moldau over the church’s PA system before the funeral Mass started, because it had been my father’s favorite symphonic piece. I had to edit the more loud and furious movements out of the recording so it would be more palatable and timely in the prelude of the service. I was standing up in the choir loft when I hit “play” on the tape recorder, and when the opening flute part began to trickle through the whispering voices below, I saw something really moving happen.
One by one, my siblings began to turn around and stare up at the source of the music. Some of them wore looks of wonder; others had tears trickling down their face. My sister who stood by my side gave me a wide-eyed smile and a thumbs-up. I knew what was going through all of our minds…this was the one song that represented the essence of our father that we could love. The part of him that was passionate about music and nature. He’d always explained, when he played Die Moldau for us, that the piece took you on a tiny stream's journey down from the mountains, becoming a wide river through peasant villages, and flowing onward to the sea. At the pinnacle of the piece, he would inevitably close his eyes, nod, and cry, “BEAUTIFUL!”
It’s miraculous and freeing when you can look back and take stock in the gifts, rather than dwell on the mistakes. And from this day forward, when I hear Die Moldau, I will always feel the best parts of my dad living on inside my heart.
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