Call it magic
Cut me into two
And with all your magic
I disappear from view
And I can't get over
Can't get over you
Still I call it magic
Such a precious jewel
And I don't, and I don't, and I don't, and I don't
No, I don't, it's true
No, I don't, no, I don't, no, I don't, no, I don't
Want anybody else but you
The simple melody fills my ears and I feel a powerful urge to pick up my guitar and play it instead of listen. A difference between us: you were always listening, and eventually, I was always playing. It seemed fitting that you should have a musical child, given it was your lifeblood. Rhythms beat through your veins, not stopping even for sleep, when your left foot would twitch in perfect time with whatever song was playing. When I got to your flat and you were in the gurney I looked at you from the feet up, like maybe there would be a sign of life to contradict your silent, staring eyes. They are mine, so I was shocked by the brightness of their blue, normally deep and dark.
I always wondered why you didn't ever play an instrument, but I think it was more about the lyrics for you, and the escape. For me, I lose myself completely in the vibrations, the feel of something I'm creating. No matter what I sit down to play, I end up making it my own, can't help it. You always watched me with a hidden smile and a twizzle of your moustache—as much emotion as you were able to show, but your praise was rich, and it meant so much to know you enjoyed it. I think you were really chuffed to have produced a kid who could play instruments without being taught.
I wrote a song for you, in the days after. I don't know why I hadn't done it before. It's unfinished.
Such is grief.
The balmy notes wash over me, and Chris Martin's gentle words, 'I don't, no I don't, no I don't, no I don't / want anybody else but you', swing a granite fist into my belly. Right now all I want is to have my dad back; sitting in the den under your cans, foot tapping away, beer in hand, as you create another playlist for me, weaving and connecting some story with titles and lyrics, as is your way.
I search for your profile on Spotify, scroll frequently through your created playlists. 'Lost at sea', 'Keepsake', 'Nothing is Ever as it Seems', 'Music is the Tongue I Speak', 'Harboured a Hope'—'Your Life is a Record'. The last one you made was 'Coast', when you moved here. Your final homecoming, the one you knew would stick, where the troubles that had dragged behind you would finally dissipate, after fifteen fraught years. But then mum broke and needed help, and they messed up her meds, and it wasn't the golden final flash you wanted, strolling the shore as you clung to her, limpet-strong. The Café's were out because you needed your safety cup by then to help you drink. You didn't want your friends to see you—you hadn't told them how advanced your disease was—and you were resistant to helping yourself.
Time defies all will, and yours slipped too quick.
Somehow in death, everything is more entangled. I find myself trying to figure out the timeline of things, to see where the knots lie. Betty and Jack, your parents who I never met, both gone by the time you were twenty-eight. It must have been utterly devastating, so loved as you were. And then there was mum's truth, a black pearl in the oyster. No shucking to move it.
I try to figure out this quiet, observing man; a sentimental poet, who fell hard for his love, who ached with the absence of his family. I read and re-read the poem you wrote for your dad when he died. I can't write one for you myself, this is all I need.
I will look to the hills, old man.
And because you taught me how, I will find you in the stars, too.
Just as I promised, when my fingers traced your warm collarbone because I couldn't look at your unseeing eyes, when I said goodbye and thank you.
There won't be a song line that doesn't make my heart thump for you, a smile of an unborn babe that doesn't ring of you, a sighting of a distant shoreline that isn't a reflection of you.
You are everywhere.
'And if you were to ask me
After all that we've been through
"Still believe in magic?"
Oh, yes, I do'.
Having a look through your archive this morning, Julie, and just had to comment on this raw, tender and affecting piece. I'm sorry you have also experienced the recent loss of your dad and that your mum struggles, too by the sounds of it. I am sensing many parallels with my own situation as I read. Oh, it's hard but I hope writing and sharing brings you solace x