�Easy reading is damned hard writing.� � Nathanial Hawthorn. You can say that again, Nate!

This morning, before work, I took my father to the airport. I finished the last page of a novel just as he was making his way out of his room with all of that luggage. I�ve been wanting him to hear a particular song from Peter Gabriel�s new album, �Up.� The song is called, �I Grieve,� and after listening to it MANY times, I was sure Dad would love it. Before he had the car door closed behind him, I put it on and asked him to start listening (short drive to the airport, long song). The song begins softly, and as Peter�s voice filled the space in my car, a stolen glance at my father confirmed that he was already sucked in.

Down Washington Street, Peter lugubriously lamented, words of loss and anguish, depression and loneliness, anger and frustration. Helplessness. So hard to move on. Still loving what�s gone. They say life carries on. I repeated the words Dad didn�t catch, driving home the point, that this is a song about the loss of a loved one, about the process we go through. Denial - �nothing yet has really sunk in� Anger - �final rattle rocks its empty cage, and I can�t handle this� Grief - �Let it out and move on� and finally, after turning onto Pacific Highway, the healing began, when the beat picks up and Peter sings of the many ways in which life DOES carry on. And the last words, �Did I dream this belief? Or did I believe this dream? Now I will find relief. I grieve.

The song ended just as I was pulling up at the terminal, and I peripherally watched my father wipe the tears from his face, touch the cloth of his sleeve to his eyes to soak up any residual moisture that may be gathering. He mentioned wanting to share the song with his sister, all of our family back east, all who are drowning in grief, gasping for relief but every time it shows up, in one form or another, some choose to dip their heads back under the water. Something comforting in sadness, I guess. I can understand that, to a point. Sometimes, it feels so good to hurt, to touch raw emotion, whether it be overwhelming joy, or gut-wrenching pain.

I got out of the car to give Dad a proper hug, to hold love for a moment. He told me, as he always does, to tell my sisters that he loves them (he always wants that to be the last thing he says, should anything, God forbid, ever happen to him). Then, walking back to the car, I smiled as I called out, �fuck off� What, don�t you know that means � I love you and I�ll miss you? But really� have a safe trip, Daddy,� hopped in the car and drove away, leaving him to stack his many bags on his little-wheely-carry thing. I�m going to miss him while he�s gone.

-Barbarella

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