memory

I don't have a lot of memories of my dad. He died when I was seven years old, and before that, he was always at work. He was there, and I'm sure he loved us, but the personal narratives I have stored in my brain are few and far between. This is one of them.

I've always loved music. Most likely, it came from my mom and her family, a group of strikingly white haired great aunts and grandmother who probably could have formed their own singing group had they gotten along better.

I got music wherever I could get it. It started with a record player with the face of a cartoon character pasted on it. Then a Barbie record player. Both of them from a Sears catalogue. The played records, and that's what really mattered. I had disney records. Story on one side, songs on the other. My favorite songs were from The Jungle Book and Mary Poppins.

My Aunt was the source of my first great album. She'd left a pile of albums on her curb. Music she didn't want any more. I don't quite understand how one abandons music at the curb, but at six years old, I went through and took what I wanted. Among them, The Beatles - Revolver. I love that music today. Sometimes I still cry from Eleanor Rigby. For No One reminds me of my most dear adolescent boyfriend. Good Day Sunshine is remains an anthem for joy.

With music comes dancing. Like many, I danced much sooner than I walked. I can imagine my mother, 5 years younger than I am now, watching her new baby bobbling up and down at the knees and hips. Maybe a goofy drooly grin. I'm sure my mother loved it and encouraged it. Oddly, I wish I could have been there.

By the time I was six, I had become accustomed to listening to music in the morning in my room. Before school, on Saturday or Sunday mornings. And, by then, it was no secret in my family that I spent much of that time dancing. It's only for my mother's efforts I was not habitually late for school.

One Saturday morning I was in my room listening to music and dancing in front of my mirror. My door wasn't closed all the way, which wasn't unusual, except when I looked up into the vulnerable crack, there was my dad's face just beaming. His glasses, goatee, dark curly hair, big smile. Of course, I was a serious child who took herself seriously. My sense of humor ended where I began. The embarassment of being watched and enjoyed was just too much for me, and I burst into angry tears. Without a pause, my father pushed open the door, scooped me up and walked me around. Just held me. By then, my father had become truly entrenched in his work, and there wasn't much time for individual attention or affection. There's nothing I can say to describe the bliss I felt being held and comforted for those two minutes before he left for work. I was so loved. I remember the blue of the walls of the room. I remember getting a glimpse of what I looked like in my dad's arms, from the reflection in a wall mirror. My head on his shoulder, as if it happened every day.

When he put me down, I was left wanting more. So much so, he had to disentangle himself from me. At the time, I felt as if I had ruined the moment. Now I know I simply wanted more of a wonderful thing.