My ipod holds something like 120 songs (it's a shuffle) and I've selected all the songs on it, obviously. My question is this: is it possible that the thing can tell, through some sort of sensing of the vibrations in my body, what I need to hear and when I need to hear it? Because when you're already on the verge of losing it, what are the chances of hearing Walk On (U2), You Gotta Be (Des'Ree), Good Mother (Jan Arden) and Save a Place for Me (Tracy Chapman) in a row? That's quite a set up for the unleasing of some type emotion, is it not? (I have a plenty of upbeat tunes on this thing too, so that many gut wrenching songs in a row is something I find peculiar.) That's not even what did it, though. It was Seal, mutha effing Seal singing Love's Divine. Next thing I know, I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, bawling.
I should've seen it coming. I was weepy last night (the book I was reading did not turn out as expected), and I've been out of sorts for a while. Could be work, could be hormones (I hate to pull the PMS card, but it's possible), could be the universe messing with me. But this was the most awesome cry I've had in a while. We're talking a thirty-minute, fist-pounding, chest-heaving sobfest. It was like the main line was busted. Obviously I needed it. Felt good, once it was over. Except for the stingy eyes and stuffy nose, of course.
So, in the book, (I'm not naming names, don't want to ruin it for anyone who might need a good cry) the main character loses someone very close to her after a long illness. Vague enough for you? As I'm reading, my thoughts naturally turn to my Dad. The last time I saw him (conscious), I knew it was the last time. As I soon I got home that afternoon, nearly three years ago, I knew. I probably relive that month more than I should, if there is such a thing as should in this case. I think about the last week of his life and how lucky I am to have been there with him. We were all there, my siblings, my mother and I. There were also what seemed like hundreds of people visiting during that final week, but at the end of each day, it was just us. We took turns giving him medicine, changing his clothes and sitting with him. One night, as I sat by his bed, I held his hand and told him, that it was ok to go. We'd be ok, I said, we'd look out for each other and take care of Mommy. My brother and sister had each done the same thing. My mother finally did too. He let go on the afternoon of September 29. But I don't think we ever will.