Play: Songs and their Memories

Listen along: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0MRPJqrpWNt0lNuUR2a6hK?si=CWL4hgG6Tfi1hDOYGgV2nQ

The Pretender by Jackson Browne

I really like driving. It’s bad for the environment (and my wallet when I have to refill my tank twice a month) but it gives me a sense of peace. It’s a liminal space for thinking, but still has potential for action. A few weeks ago I was driving down a road to nowhere when a dog ran across the street and down the shoulder. I pulled over next to a man in a truck who was whistling at the dog. It wasn’t his dog either but we spent half an hour trying to corral the dog into the driveway we think he came from.

My dad and I used to drive a lot. He introduced me to his favorite bands and I sang along from the back seat. When I was in high school, I told him we weren’t spending enough time together. My therapist thought it best that we schedule a weekly dinner together, without my stepmom. We went once and went home early.

Dog Days Are Over by Florence + The Machine

I had never purposefully watched the sunrise before. Certainly not alone. I woke up around four that morning to the sound of mom yelling. She always finds things to get on my case about (sometimes she’s justified) but I don’t remember why we were fighting this time. I waited for a while to see if she would fall back asleep and hopped in the car when she didn’t. My best friends and I had driven through those hills for the past five years, but I had never been down that road. I had never been to that lookout. And I certainly hadn’t watched the sunrise alone in my car.

I thought about my relationship with myself a lot today. I didn’t know who I was for a very long time. I still have days when I look in the mirror and wonder when I became the woman I did, but I know her soul better than I’ve known anything in my entire life. I love my passion and intensity and competitive nature. It feels like I could watch a million sunrises with myself and never get tired.

Strawberry Letter 23 by Shuggie Otis

My boyfriend is a strange human. I called him that once before he was my boyfriend. He knew what I meant but he still wanted to know my reasoning. I still don’t know what makes him strange, but he is definitely different from most people. While we were friends, I called him exhausting. He talks a lot — constantly asking questions and offering up topics for debate. I cried last night and journaled about how scared I am. Scared to let him in. Scared to fall in deep. I couldn’t stop the tears no matter how hard I tried.

My boyfriend navigates his computer like it’s a spaceship. Moving from tab to tab, jotting ideas down on virtual sticky notes, and, of course, playing music the entire time. He’s a Libra after all. He talks about middle school as if he was already the fully-formed man he is today. He tells me about opening his own little business and smoking cigarettes. I can’t help but imagine a slightly shorter version of him, maybe with a higher voice, and no beard. He tells me about the girls he’s had crushes on or flings with. I wonder if I will be a name drop with his next girl.

Dancing Queen by ABBA

My friend Willa’s family does outings right. They plan the whole day out, taking into consideration what everyone wants to do, and making sure it all gets done before coming home. This results in a lot of late-night drives back. She has two siblings and each child got their “plus one” every time there was an outing, this meant a packed car with two parents and six kids. I spent the majority of my time with them during those first two years of high school, pretending they were my family and adding my voice to their von Trapp-like choir.

I remember how invested their parents were in their lives. They enthusiastically listened to every word of every story, no matter how banal. I remember resenting Willa every time she was mad at them. At least she had parents who liked to have fun and make memories. Mine were only capable of quick conversations during walks around the neighborhood if that. When I think about becoming a parent, I think about them. The way they created a safety net for their kids and surrounded each of them with a different sort of love. They weren’t perfect either, but they felt like it to me.

Cherry Wine by Hozier

The time when I feel most at peace is when I’m kayaking on the lake where my grandmother lives. Oma’s house has felt more like home than anywhere since I was a baby. I learned how to tell my right from my left in her foyer. I still imagine the painting of an owl when I forget which way is which. There’s a bench in the yard that I’ve done more reading on than anywhere in the world. I used to think it was magic because I could read so quickly and feel like no time had passed. That house was my own little fortress and the woods and lake were my slices of paradise.

I don’t remember the first time she told me it would be mine one day, but I held on to that notion so tightly. I could imagine every moment of my life unfolding in those walls. Waking up each morning, sipping coffee on the porch, going kayaking as the sunrise reflected on the lake. That life sounds like complete bliss and it’s hard to imagine never getting it. I’m scared to grow up, though. I’m scared for Oma to die and for that house not to be her’s. Will it still hold the same magic? Will I do it justice? Will my grandchildren have the same sense of belonging and wonder?

New Year’s Day by U2

My parents aren’t partiers anymore. My dad once told me that he fell in love with my mother because of her energy. It’s the thing I’m most glad to have inherited from her. We both have loud laughs and we both like to be the life of the party. When I was little, they liked to throw parties, usually around the holidays. In the minutes before guests arrived, my stomach would flip flop and the smell of Pine-Sol and incense would fill the house. I don’t know what made those evenings so magical. Maybe it was the sugar rush and lack of bedtime. Maybe it was getting attention from my parents’ friends. Maybe it was seeing my parents drunk, dancing, and happy.

I seek these moments out with my people. Long nights where your stomach hurts a bit and you can’t imagine sleeping. The beginning of college had that feeling. We all sought out the same feeling, never wanting the night to end. As we grow up and progress toward our goals, we’re drifting apart. Parties feel like a distant memory; I suppose I didn’t appreciate them enough in the moment.

Sunglasses at Night by Corey Hart

My mom and I did a guided tour of the Louvre because we figured it was easier than waiting in the long lines. The tour was fine but wasn’t my ideal museum experience. After convincing my mom to let me stray away from the pack, I got to explore some areas of the museum the tour didn’t include. Closed doors are typically a no-no for me in public spaces, but this door felt safe. I don’t remember much else except dancing. I don’t remember what paintings were on the wall or how big the room was. I just remember dancing.

When I think about the impact music has had on my life, I think of this moment. I felt free and cool and worth knowing. I told my aunt about dancing in the Louvre a few years later. She said she could imagine it perfectly, but had a very different song in mind. It’s interesting to have strong associations with songs that may conflict with other people’s memories or thoughts. I like intentionally making connections of songs to people, hoping they do the same for me. Hoping that years later they’ll be in the car listening to the radio and an image of us will pop into their mind.