I spent this morning remembering the contours and contents of my dad's record closet. The way I'd climb up the sides to reach the turntable. How the electronics kept the space toasty, and the smell of old paper. My dad doesn't physically figure into the memory, but his imprint is there.
I wanted to call him, ask him what he was thinking, feeling. He's a drummer, a good one, but went to work at the mill because that's what you did when you got married and had kids. I wondered how he felt about a music idol not much older than him dying, and about his own life, regrets.
But we don't have that kind of relationship, and I wouldn't know where to start.