Katie cleaned out her closet last
week, creating a giant stack of clothes to pass along to younger friends.
This isn’t unusual. Children
outgrow their clothes quicker than they outwear them, and we’re surrounded by
families who appreciate a pile of hand-me-downs.
What was unusual was the little
dress I placed on top of Katie’s discards: a charmingly mismatched floral number
that I’ve held on to for seven years, a dress that Katie outgrew before she
entered kindergarten.
She loved this particular dress
for its twirling qualities. She wore it to church and preschool parties. And
she wore it for our final family photo with her daddy.
I’ve struggled to let it go for too long, allowing my sentimental
tendencies to overpower my practical side. I was finally able to pass on the
tiny dress, perfect for a spunky 4-year-old we know, because of music.
Way back in the summer of 2000, in
our time before children, Steve and I attended a performance of Parade, an award-winning yet
commercially dismal musical. We fell in love with the story and songs, despite
the tragic themes and ending.
Parade is obscure, as far as musicals go. It tells the true story
of Leo Frank, a Jewish man living in Atlanta who was accused of murdering a
girl in the pencil factory he managed. Though the murder and subsequent trial
take place almost 50 years after the end of the Civil War, the South is still
struggling with anger toward the North and changes in the economy and social
structure.
It’s heavy stuff, for sure,
providing plenty of material to debate and process.
In the decade that followed, we would
discuss the story and sing the songs together. Our favorite was “The Picture
Show,” a playful duet between Frankie and Mary, but we’d perform them all,
sometimes in the car or in the kitchen while washing up after dinner.
When Steve died in 2009, I didn’t
stop listening, and I didn’t stop singing, but I lost a little gusto. Those
songs, plus a whole library of others that matter, bridged a connection between
life with Steve and life without.
Cooper and Katie have grown up
with Parade in the background – along
with U2, Jack Johnson, ZZ Top, Wicked,
Aaron Copland, Rent, the Beatles, the
Dixie Chicks and the Cure. Those tunes are a nod to the daddy they love, a man whose
days were too short.
Because Parade is underappreciated, I expected to listen to the same
recording over and over for the rest of my days. But a local theater brought
the story to life for one night only last weekend – and I couldn’t pass up the
chance to enjoy it live again.
Cooper, Katie and I attended the
special production at the WaterTower Theatre, and I used all of my willpower to
not sing aloud. I had no willpower to stop my tears.
The lyrics filled my soul again,
and this time I was seated not next to Steve but surrounded by our two children.
Sometimes I would close my eyes and just listen – and ponder the power of music
that endures years, that sweeps us back in time and propels us forward.
I can’t possibly hold on to every
scrap of clothing, every memento that ties us to Steve – or to any of my loved
ones who have passed away. And I don’t need to. My heart swells with snippets
of conversation, with scents that evoke joy, with lines of poetry set to lovely
melodies.
Listening to the music again
helped me to remember that there are forces more powerful than things.
Little Phoebe will twirl in
Katie’s dress, then one day she’ll share it with sister Ingrid. They’ll create
their own memories. My sweet memories of the dress are stored up and nestled in
with songs and laughter and a few tears.
-->
