For Days Gone By

This past weekend, I found myself remembering a Thanksgiving many moons ago.

Picture it: 1987, and the world is enveloped in an Aqua-Net haze. My bangs are stiff and tall, and my all-time favorite band, The Hooters, announce they’ll play a gig at the Spectrum in their (and my) hometown, Philadelphia, on Thanksgiving night, November 26. The concert would be broadcast live on MTV and a video for my favorite song Karla with a K would be shot that night. Although I had just seen the band a few weeks before at the Tower Theater (and as many times during the previous two years as my allowance would allow), there was no doubt that I would be at *this* show, even though it was a family holiday.

I don’t remember asking for tickets to be purchased (for me, my brother, and my best-friend-that-week), but they were. And I don’t remember asking Dad to drive us and pick us up (since none of us were old enough to get behind the wheel), but he did. I might not have even had to ask — he would have just offered. After all, this was the man who bought me a melodica for Christmas the year before (the instrument The Hooters were known for). And he was also the man who gassed up the car and drove from shop to shop a few counties over after I asked, “Can we go to Lancaster to get this black hat that Eric wore on the inside sleeve of the One Way Home album, which I think was photographed there?”

12 years and three days after that night, he died.

That was 18 years ago.

18.

My grief is all grown up.

To foot-stompin’ rockin’ good times that make the sadness that never quite goes away a lot easier to bear.

To memories. To celebration. To life.

Well, I’m here all alone
A wind blows home
We’ll find it someday
There’s no reason to cry
For days gone by
Oh, Karla, we can make it if we try

birthday peeps

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