On Remembering: Or, Liner Notes for 3 Objects of Emotional Significance

I. The frying pan’s too wide

At first glance, the indigo cover simply says “Joni Mitchell.” The title of the album, Blue, nearly the same shade as the cover, blends in. When the light catches on the glossy cardboard just right, the title disappears completely. Joni’s face, too, is only partially visible. Dark shadows cast over her hair, cheekbones, and the entire left side of her face. Her eyes are either closed or looking down, but it is impossible to know, the graininess of the photo overwhelming. Her face fades into shadow. On the reverse, simply, that beautiful shade of indigo, and in tiny font in the bottom left corner, the tracklist. Ten songs that brought you solace, sadness, joy. Ten songs that now bring me some combination of all these emotions.

I remove the plastic vinyl outer sleeve. Run my hands over the cover. I can see you holding it up to the light in our living room. I can see you placing the record on the turntable, then placing the needle on the record, then turning the volume knob up. A record you returned to so often in my childhood that the songs made a permanent residence in my mind. I remove the record from the inner sleeve. Listen to Joni now. Think about what you saw of yourself in Joni’s soaring voice. I listen to you through her. Listen to your sadness, your grief.

There is a photo of you playing guitar in the living room. I can’t remember how your playing sounded, so I listen to the gentle fingerpicking on “Little Green,” and pretend it is you. Hear Joni lament her lost child. Hear Joni remember her child. For us, the roles are reversed, so I must be the one to write to remember you. To keep you here. And sometimes there’ll be sorrow. Her sadness was your sadness. Is now my sadness. Little green, have a happy ending.

The crackle of needle running over the grooves. Running running. Oh I wish I had a river so long / I would teach my feet to fly. Joni’s voice soars while her fingers run over the keys. A sense of freedom in her timing, the way piano lines speed up and slow down, ebb and flow, a river finding release when it finally thaws over. Her voice flying, reaching high notes with ease. Must have filled your heart just as it fills my heart now. Made you feel light, buoyant. Made you feel like you could be free.

You wanted to get away from it all. The heartache that never seems to dissipate. You wanted to run away from anything that reminded you that your brother and your father were gone. I want to do the same. Want to run, run, run away. Follow the river out to sea. Find open expanse. Let my grief rush out to sea. I don’t want it to be mine anymore. Can’t hold it in any longer. Part of you pours out of me / In these lines from time to time. So bitter. So sweet. If I go to the ocean and reach into my soul and scream as loud as I can, I hope you will hear me.

II. Baby can I hold you tonight

This time a beige cover. A woman sits front and center. Along the left edge, it reads: “Tracy Chapman.” Only now do I realize how similar this cover is to Blue. Just like Joni, Tracy looks down with a somber expression, shadows casting over the side of her face, her skin nearly the same color as the background. But she is more present than Joni, not fading away into the background. When I pull out the inner sleeve, a nearly identical photograph appears. But this time she is smiling. The truth is only revealed when you dig deeper, get to the root, the heart of things, she told you. She now tells me.

I look at the date and learn that this record is 33 years old. I breathe in the aging paper and smell a different time. I try to understand what you were going through. You didn’t tell me explicitly, so I have to dig, hunt for the clues in these songs. The needle moves from the first groove to the second. “Fast Car” comes on and I think I understand now. You heard Tracy sing about her mother leaving and staying with her father to take care of him and you remembered it all. Your mother leaving for Alaska. Living with your father. Going for a drive just to cruise and feel the wind on your faces and watch the sun slowly set. So I remember we were driving, driving in your car. It felt good to listen to Tracy and remember those tender moments. And your arm felt nice wrapped ’round my shoulder.

You got a fast car. After he passed away, you took the driver’s seat and I took your place. You used to drive us to the cemetery. Maybe together we can get somewhere. We brought Cheez-Its for your father. Flowers for your brother. Both gone too soon. Loss was not something I could fully comprehend as a toddler. But I hope that I was able to bring you some comfort. Just by being there with you, your arm wrapped around my shoulder as we sat in silence by their grave. When we would get back in the car to head home, that weight of grief would be just a little bit lighter on your shoulders. You got a fast car / Is it fast enough so we can fly away?

In Tracy, you found what you needed. Her voice, shaking yet resonant. Strong in its vulnerability. Hearing it gave you strength. Or rather, reminded you of your inner strength. On bad days, you would forget this fact, so you put on Tracy to remember again. When the needle hit wax and “Baby Can I Hold You” came on, you’d dance. You learned that grief makes a home in the body as tension and that movement helps release the pain. You would sway slowly from side to side, holding yourself silently, trying to heal. Years gone by and still / Words don’t come easily.

The clouds hang heavily in the sky. You’ve been gone for awhile now. I am lost in this record, trying to find you. “Baby Can I Hold You” comes on and all I can do is cry. The kind of crying where everything else falls away. In this elevated state, acoustic guitar, bass, and drums wash over me. Tracy’s voice pierces through our speakers. Then mine joins hers. Cries out to you. Baby can I hold you tonight. And I feel you put your arms around me and I sob in your warm embrace.

III. Tears say more than words explain

This time a CD. The plastic case is weathered, the hinges loose, easily swinging open, close, open close. The three members of The Chicks are captured in profile, midstride, smiling. There is the promise of sunshine in their smiles. The blur of their arms in motion as they walk reminds you of the importance of movement. Gives you the courage to keep moving forward. On the reverse, Natalie Maines, Emily Erwin, and Martie Seidel sit at a table laughing. Their joy is their strength. Is your strength. And now, perhaps, mine.

The date on the back reads 1998. Wide Open Spaces was released at the end of January. Two months before I turned three. Your father and brother had been gone for a few years at that point. In your grieving—a process I now understand unfolds slowly and in waves and feels endless—you discovered this album and found solace in its country twang, its tales of heartbreak and loss, and ultimately, its push towards inner strength.

In some strange way, when I pop in the CD, press play on our stereo, and hear Natalie Maines’ clear, bright voice, I feel so strongly that it is yours. No album was played as frequently and as loudly as this one during my childhood. The melodies buried themselves deep into my memories, and I find myself singing along now just as you once did all the time. I struggle and strain, trying to remember exactly how your voice sounded as I listen to Maines now. Tears of joy and tears of pain / Tears say more than words explain. I am searching for you, desperate to remember, desperate to keep you here.

The next song comes on. Maines’ voice rings out alone. Then, bass, guitar, and violins burst in, swinging with such gusto that I can’t help but bounce along despite the tears that have been flowing freely since I put on the CD. Perhaps this is what spoke to you. If the pain of losing your brother and father did not seem like it would dissipate, then perhaps you could find a way to at least dance and sing and holler through the tears. Bartender pour the wine ‘cause the hurting’s all mine / Tonight the heartache’s on me.

If I turn the volume knob on the stereo up. If I listen carefully. If I close my eyes and search for you. I can almost feel your loving arms again. I can hear your love. Just to spend a moment longer with you. Just to occupy the same space. I play with Legos and you play with K’Nex. I feel the sun shining through the windows. I know you appreciate the warmth because it reminds you that you are still here. That despite it all, you still have me and dad and your sisters and your nieces and nephews and your friends. To feel the sun on your skin while Maines sings of joy and pain grounds you in the present. All you have to do is enjoy the moment. The Chicks help you remember that.

You would grab my hands and pull me to the living room to dance. Because movement is medicine. Because you needed to remember what joy felt like again. I came reluctantly because in my selfish adolescence, I detested that country twang that you loved so much. If I could just go back, I would dance with my whole heart. If I could just go back, I would lend you my shoulder to cry on. Just for a while, turn back the hands of time / If I could only hold you now.

I tell myself that if I could go back and do these things, maybe you would still be here to do them for me. I tell myself that if I listen to this album enough, I’ll hear your voice singing along, and I’ll turn to see your radiant smile. It feels like wishful thinking. I do not know when or if the pain of your loss will dissipate, but all I can ask for are small pockets of joy where I can remember your laughter, your smile, your nurturing love.