In Defense of the Melody

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In Defense of the Melody

and another year

Dec 01, 2025

It’s December first, one day before I will turn sixty-five years old. We just got back from a crisp, windy Northern California coastline where sea air clears cobwebs and saves a serenity for a peaceful evening’s slumber. My birth roots are near the ocean.

It’s sunny and cool at home. The leaves on the trees are bright red, with hints of orange. Yeah, you would know Christmas is near. I often wonder what the new year will bring. I hope it brings peace and joy to my family. Perhaps another friend for our Bea, like this Thanksgiving brought, if only for a moment. A heavy familiarity, in the exact same spot, where she played with her best friend last year. Uncanny.

As I look back out the window of dad’s hospice room, in 2020, I am reminded of the songs. I went to bed with a song and woke with a song. Over and over they’d play in my head delivered like a timed heavenly prescription. The balm of a perfect song filling the space that lingered in the memories and the whens.

He’s pushing my bicycle down the street, trainers off. We did that. When will he take his last breath? I’m watching dad drive the truck and camper from the bench seat — singing his songs the best I can with him. When will this end? I’ve never seen an ending. We still sing, windows down. We run on the beach. They run. Windy hair, wheels spinning over spring blooms. He’s mad at me. I got mad at them. They broke my heart. They still do. I wrecked his car. Went to pick-a-part with him. I cried all the way there. He forgave me. I forgave them. I spent his hard earned money on a marriage that fell apart in 18 months. Things fall apart. We fall apart. Yeah, I never talk about it. I was a baby. Twenty and foolish. It won’t be a story. There were no songs. The guy didn’t like women.

Dad gave me away to a great man a few years later. Proud of us, he became John’s best ally and true friend to the end.

And love is a calling with the title “Mother,” where every thought is more important than her own. Birthdays pass in the memory of a sixteen year old. Mom, she’s a special lady, cooking, serving, entertaining my teenage friends — cleaning dishes, alone, while I felt important.

Her poetry filled my birthday cards. I don’t think I’ll ever live up to her.

These people I love. My little brother Adam. Feet set on the right track.

There's always something good out there. Like the birds. Doing their best. Playing their songs. I miss the songs dad used to send me via snail mail. Opening up the manilla square package, sealed like a Brinks bank. Popping the c.d. in the player. Phone calls to say “thank you” — share music reviews. Adam sends the YouTubes now. I text a “thank you.” He turned me onto Stephen Wilson Jr. and I’ve played “søn of dad” 100 times.

Nature ages, it seems, more gracefully than us. I named a new tree to replace the old who passed away still trying to hold the weight of her stories. Mable the maple tree is doing fine. Her vibrant personality inviting the old birds to share new branches outside our bedroom window.

Sea trails and country fields are full of aging wind barriers protecting us like giant warriors. I want to wrap my old arms around their trunks.

Praise each birthday we get.

No matter how old, someone is always older. We are one second away from disappearing or losing everything. Our elderly neighbor has gone missing. We talked to her almost every week. She told John, a few months ago, when her dog died, it would be time for her...she guessed. Her best friend passed. Her car is gone. Sheriff station posted her old face. I saw mine. God speed Kathleen. We pray you are safe somewhere.

The kitchen isn’t as busy. The table usually waiting. But He’s there. God, the song glued to the memories. Nothing has changed since I was 18. I am still hopeful, wishing the best for my family. It’s not about me ~~but maybe just a little.~~ It’s about all of us. About Kathleen.