Another anniversary arrives, number nine.
Inserted between the mundane activities of daily living like grading exams and getting a tooth filling replaced, I shall listen again to his voice, read again his writing, watch again his memorial concert, and remember again his infrequent visits, his puns in baritone, his love for music, and his heartbreak from losing Stephanie.
Today I shall wear his suspenders, drink from his coffee mug, and raise a glass of Jameson’s from the bottle we shared all those those years ago (rarely touched since his last visit here). I’ll call one sister too, but not his other children. The youngest has died, another is lost. Such will be today.
Tomorrow, today will be forgotten.
In time, everything will be forgotten.
In history, everyone will be forgotten.
But in music… In the music he played, the music he wrote, the music he discovered, that music, sweet music, that shall live on.
I’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.
Every son should have the love of a dad that a son so dearly has of a dad.
John, Sharon said it best And I cannot add.
That was beautiful, JP, thank you. Not a day goes past when Patrick doesn’t drift into my thoughts, and the the principal feeling is one of profound gratitude that I got to know him and work with him on that music he discovered. I am proud he called me his friend, and I loved him.
So touched my heart. Every man – or woman – should have a child who feels the way you do about Patrick and who expresses those feelings so beautifully.