The Beatles aren't just a band. Not to me, the Beatles are a place. A key to memories. I can smell the leather of my dad's car seats. That... particular scent that aging German cars get that no other bloody car ever seems to have. That strange clacking rattle of the engines. Something in the way they were put together.
The sight of my high school passing by on the drivers side of the car. The traffic of Ocean Avenue on the way to the turn to Carmel Valley Road. The light filtering through the Monterey Pines. My papa belting out off tune along with the music, a hand resting on my arm.
I have the full knowledge that he did love me. I however, had a Rubicon that I had to cross. Once I did that, there was no returning. The pain and depression of transition, at least, in my case, and I suspect in many others lies in such memories. The love that we knew. It wasn't false or fake. We just found out that it was in fact conditional. Despite the promises of our youth that we would always be loved, no matter what.
I just perhaps wish, that my papa still loved me with that same seeming lack of condition, and we could belt out the Beatles together in his car, driving down Highway 1.
The sight of my high school passing by on the drivers side of the car. The traffic of Ocean Avenue on the way to the turn to Carmel Valley Road. The light filtering through the Monterey Pines. My papa belting out off tune along with the music, a hand resting on my arm.
I have the full knowledge that he did love me. I however, had a Rubicon that I had to cross. Once I did that, there was no returning. The pain and depression of transition, at least, in my case, and I suspect in many others lies in such memories. The love that we knew. It wasn't false or fake. We just found out that it was in fact conditional. Despite the promises of our youth that we would always be loved, no matter what.
I just perhaps wish, that my papa still loved me with that same seeming lack of condition, and we could belt out the Beatles together in his car, driving down Highway 1.
I think part of what hurts so much, is that in these times of trouble, all I truly want is for my papa to hug me like he used too, and tell me he's still proud of me for trying so hard.
And that is a privilege that I do not feel I shall ever know again. I cut that limb from my life with my own hands, because it had grown gangrenous. The phantom pain of it however can strike with sudden and excruciating clarity. A wound that has healed over, but not cleanly, or ever truly completely.
And that is a privilege that I do not feel I shall ever know again. I cut that limb from my life with my own hands, because it had grown gangrenous. The phantom pain of it however can strike with sudden and excruciating clarity. A wound that has healed over, but not cleanly, or ever truly completely.