observations at 4 years.

Eileen's been gone four years and it's just yesterday and sometimes it feels like a while ago now. I haven't documented here for a long while, but I remind myself what a powerful tool the writings in this space have been for my grieving and mourning and coping. Reviewing where I've been since losing Eileen has been profound and beneficial- it's never been the easiest writing nor the easiest reading though it certainly pays to put in the time.

There's a long hole where I didn't really have much to say here. Truth is that I had volumes to say but couldn't focus my thoughts enough to even write. An astounding pile of stuff has gone on in the past couple years...lots and lots of Life.

Months after losing Eileen, my friendship with Susan had developed into a deep relationship...until Susan reached her turn-around point. It's hard to be in a relationship with a widower. It's hard to be the widower. Two tin cans and a thousand mile string- something's bound to go wrong, ya? So there's that.

Yes, there's that. And some more bad shit happened along the way. Thankfully I've always been fortunate to find something to buoy me, something to keep me cranking the pedals. Good stuff happens also. I can get low or I can choose to carry on. I'm learning my worth, learning how my path has given me some top-notch top-shelf high-quality tools. Tools I can loan out to folks who might need a little boost, some empathy or perspective. Comfortable tools, well designed for general tinkering, the kind that have a good hand and offer a plain competence. I like to be helpful. I am learning my worth.

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I'm at the drums fighting the Lido shuffle. It's maddeningly difficult for me. Only three instruments; two hands, one foot. Ridiculously tricky. It's supposed to be played at 141bpm and I'm up to 110bpm. It feels good as I'm playing but after reviewing a recording, nope; I better slow down again and work it back up. I'm not ready for 141bpm. Now 90bpm and it's still pretty rough.  I'll get it eventually.

I "do music" alot. I write pebbles of songs and phrases. I think cinematically and songs get way too epic real quick. I try so hard with lyrics but my story is too deep. I should write about cars. Or pencils. Something short and simple and shallow. Harrumph. I want to say so much yet I'm stymied once the words hit the page. Dumb- that sounds dumb. That bit is great but next to that...that's so dumb. Even the fact that I get frustrated angers me. I want to feel free to experiment and fail and develop but I don't practice what I preach. I quit early. My melodies anger me... how can they be so sweet? Where is the integrity in this syrup? It's a hook but it's so saccharine. I've probably stolen this lick. Who am I kidding- sweetness has no rage.

I'm terrible at finishing but I begin lots. The anticipation of future completion; maybe that's what actually satisfies me...I see the end in my mind's eye... but then I get overwhelmed with the mechanics of doing the work. I give up because I lack discipline.

Whatever. I'll generate more pieces and paste it all together one day and call it done. I find it beneficial to sit on ideas for a while to let them simmer and coalesce anyway...I accept that as a good and valid use of time. It's bizarre to find old thoughts jotted into scraps of email drafts that I have no recollection of writing. Some of the sad orphaned phrases are bracing. They'll grab me and truly shock me sometimes. I said that? When? Shit man...that's messed up. Some of it is pretty good.

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I'm preoccupied with the 'Moment Before'; The sound of a note hardly connecting, the anti-sound as fingers slide on a string before it sings. The woodish timbre of a key pushing down onto a green felt bed that then moves an action up that then makes a reed twinge just enough, just a hint, only a hint. Is that musical? Maybe I shouldn't go full bore... maybe this is actually what I'm meant to hear. Maybe the resolution I'll learn is that things don't ever resolve.

There's a sound to your voice first thing in the morning. Cords are dry and first air pushes past like the wind from a car, a transient shadow over leaves on a damp road. The leaves cling with stiction before releasing a whispered whoosh. There's something to it; breath through a quiet clarinet, how it lays across a spit-softened reed. Stop it all right there- let that be "it"...could you even? Wait now- is this what it's about? Are my songs really to be unheard, living their worth within the Moment Before?

What's the first pre-sound, the anti-sound, of a feeling? How does the universe sound just before it slams its hammer onto you? I'll wince and listen closer next time. This is ongoing.

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Tara. 15 months. September 2016.

I've barely closed your front door and already hear a greeting from the bedroom. The thunk of toddler feet hitting the floor, padding toward me with my most favorite morning smile- eyes wide, diaper sagging. It's the sound of two fingers tapping the inside of a wrist, pushing a spirited tempo. I can't make my voice anywhere near as meek nor happy as hers, I've been old for too long. We're goofing and she slyly grins and mocks my low, accented "...noooo...." and I lose it. This girl owns me.

Knucklehead barges past me searching for floor food under the highchair. "Hi Red!..." she says, a shockingly perfect impression of me. Red does a drive-by sniffing and thwacks Tara's snot with his tail on the way to annoy Dervala, who's a breath away from falling off the edge of the bed. D is spent, T is plumped. I'm not sure how either is still ambulatory. I start the kettle and frother. It's cheerios today... negotiated independently via spoon, the magneta one that I like. "Oh, here's the good one!" I say, and she parrots my phrase as I hand it to her. Tara entertains herself by piling soggy O's toward the edges of her tray while I start the oatmeal...err, porridge, as it's known in this house.

That morning light on half her face models Tara's features so beautifully. It wasn't a lighting-centric decision to fit her breakfast nook with a clean white surface, but damn... the soft bounce-light is luscious. Oh those eyes!

A lady outside the restaurant gushed that Tara had my forehead. The most ridiculous compliment I'd ever heard, really. If she only knew this whole story. I must write a boardbook version of this tale...or more likely; a chapter book. Perhaps a song. Tara does have my forehead though, somehow. And she has my wit. Hints of my drawn-out "ooh's" peek out from under Mumma's Irish brogue and Lupe's Spanish. This child has quite a mix.

Tara makes us laugh in the evening before bed and I can't comprehend when she finds the time to work on her killer stand-up routines. She whispers ".....dadda....dadda....dadda......DADDA!!!....." She even cracks herself up. Her laugh has developed into an infectious chortle that sounds more mature than her year(plus). Winding down and draped over my shoulder, she hums as I rhythmically thud the heel of my hand against her back. Staccato'd, long "ooh's". Her weight is such a comforting heaviness, like the snow from a collapsed fort that I won't extricate myself from. And just like that I'm in my snowsuit, on my back under the neighbor's pines, watching my breath rise. That crow way up there- contemplating what this kid's life will be when he's older. Nearly 50 Keith stands flummoxed. It's heavy and glorious. I am privileged to be here. This is amazing. I am here.

I am here. Tara doesn't need burping, not for a long time now, but we like the routine.  My thumps diminish to a pat, then a rub. I'm slowly shuushing, "...sssshhhhhhh...ssssshhhhhhh...".  I play a few measures of paradiddles, R's on her back, L's on her thigh: Right Left Right Right...Left Right Left Left...  Softly.

I fly her over to the crib where she assumes a jesus christ pose with arms wide and eyes closed. Her lips stretch to the most pleasant smile you've ever seen. She knows she's landing and immediately rolls onto her side making it hard for me to button her cozy sleepsack. It's a struggle every night to beat her at her own game- she doesn't know that my placement of her little body onto the staged bag is the key: I anticipate where she'll end up after touchdown and adjust my target area. I haven't gotten it right yet but it's a worthy goal, like drumming the Lido shuffle.

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Up at the high school last weekend, Dervala perused the bulletin board while Tara and I made our way toward Eileen's Memorial Garden. We've come here a few times now and it's getting easier for me, although less so this particular week. A hummingbird zoomed to the nearest branch of the closest bush and it stopped us cold. I could have touched it. Tara pointed and smiled and her eyes followed the tiny flier as it zoomed to the top branch of the tallest tree. We watched for a couple moments and I couldn't help but yell to Dervala "there's Eileen!"

Dervala made sure I took the time I needed on the anniversary of losing Eileen. I realized I wanted to spend time with her and Tara and less time alone, as I had the previous years. It felt right and good. We three spent our morning together with our little routine, then a nice walk in the neighborhood with Tara exploring on the lawn at the school nearby. So amazing to watch her drink up the onslaught of new experiences, the city stimuli. This small, atypical, unexpected and incredibly lovely family is racking up moments upon moments together and it is glorious.

I headed to the coast for a bike ride later. I got a little lost and ended up on trails that weren't right for biking so it turned into quite a hike-a-bike. I slowed down and accepted that maybe this ride was more for thinking and thanking than spinning and sweating.

A recent computer crash prompted some spelunking through my digital life and I rediscovered some glorious footage of Eileen at the coast, hiking as the sun was setting. There she is, on the very trail where I ended up hiking with my bike in tow... things come around, don't they.

Her short 'do telegraphs that she was under treatment at the time. Cross-referencing with her blog, I see this was when things were going relatively well and she was feeling good. I recall feeling so grateful to be out there with my wife, that she felt well enough to be out on the trails. It wasn't always the case back then.

My play-count for the video is in the hundreds. Twelve seconds and I've lingered on every frame. She says, "It's magic hour. Sun just set, now we're lit indirectly from the sky. No shadows." Her eyes give a little lift when she says "magic hour", like she's watching someone open a gift. "...now we're lit indirectly from the skyyyyyy.....". She lilts on sky, her melody rising.

It's magic hour. Sun just set. Now we're lit indirectly from the sky. No shadows.

It's magic hour. Sun just set. Now we're lit indirectly from the sky. No shadows.

Twelve seconds... Hearing her voice, knowing her humor, seeing her spirit... there- in her eyes, in that light. That magic hour light on her face.

Sun just set. Now we're lit indirectly from the sky. No shadows...

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