November 11, 2011
Elegy of love.
Eleven eleven eleven.
A full moon has risen.
It is perfect and balanced and beautiful.
I was born on the eleventh of January.
My father was born on the eleventh of November.
We were both only children.
When I was little I used to talk excitedly with my father about our 2011 birthdays. It was the late 1960’s. The year 2011 was inconceivable; an arrival point so distant and unreachable as to be almost preposterous. Never much of a numerologist or mystic, I still enjoyed the vertical simplicity of all those ones.
“I’ll be 49!”
This was uttered with sheer amazement at how old that was. An eight year old is incapable of grasping the concept of middle age, and how she might ever get there. Nor, why she’d ever want to. Yuck.
I wriggled my nose as I tried to do the math. “And you’ll be 83!” I gazed lovingly at my father and had no reason to think that this was an unreasonable request.
He died thirteen years ago in 1998, at age 69.
It’s rare for a day to go by when the full moon of his wise glow does not envelope my life. In the best of ways.
His complicated essence: often funny, sometimes quietly tortured, perpetually intellectual, always kind, weaves a path through the music I create, much in the way my seaside existence is reflected in so many notes.
It is unavoidable.
It is resonant.
It is permanent.
And it is valued, and loved, always.