The Soundtrack

Dina Moon

I should’ve known something was about to happen. It was a beautiful day, after all, the kind we don’t see that often this early in March. Technically still winter, we were sitting firmly at 75 degrees on a pathway to 80. My day had been unusually well-organized. Up on time – check. Dogs fed early – check. Protein consumption followed by some decent cardio – check. By 9 am, I had everything done including my least favorite chore, the litterbox cleaning. Perhaps I was too jolly as I rolled into the gym for my second workout of the day. Still, I attacked arm day with panache. When the lady wouldn’t leave the fan off in the stretching room, I could not be troubled. When the weight machines were overtaken by spring break teens, I just smiled and nodded. Driving home, the sun warmed the interior of my car, the crystal pendant hanging from my rearview mirror causing tiny prisms to swim through the air like minnows in a clear lake. There wasn’t a chem trail in sight. That’s the thing about perfect days. They seldom really are.

I heard the song before I realized the memory. It’s a great song. I just discovered a new Sirius XM station called Pop 2K. I love listening to the forgotten songs from the early 2000s. It was such a good time in life. That was when we were married. That was a time of job promotions, new homes, Friday night football games. The kids were in a million activities, and we were burning our candles to the point of all wick and no wax, but boy, weren’t we having fun? The music was equal parts grungy ballads and catchy upbeat songs. It’s nice to hear a tune and be transported back to a time when anything felt possible. The world was kind, the economy was healthy, and we were going places. Those things were running through my mind on March 12th when the sun was gorgeous, and my arms were sore in a way that promised summer biceps. I went to stop at a red light and realized what I was listening to, pressing down harder than I intended on the brake. Not this song. Not today.

“What would you think of me now? So lucky, so strong, so proud. I never said thank you for that. Now I’ll never have the chance. May angels lead you in. Hear you me, my friends. On sleepless roads the sleepless go. May angels lead you in.” As it usually happens in these instances, the tears reached my collarbone before I realized I was crying. The car behind me honked. My light had turned green. But all I could focus on was a 2001 song called Hear You Me by a band called Jimmy Eat World. I know it well. At one point, I had a “burner” CD of important songs that I listened to until the words were more familiar to me than my own name. Songs like Gary Allen’s Life Ain’t Always Beautiful, Chuck Prophet’s No Other Love, Avril Lavigne’s Miss You. These songs are tools. I use them as accompanying tunes for Instagram posts. I quote them often. They play in an eternal loop in my mind. They were all songs from my daughter’s funeral.

I talk to myself a lot. I do it out loud, too, complete with moving lips, facial expressions, and hand gestures. My mom was a masterful self-talker, so I come by it naturally. It’s a family habit, perhaps genetic, even. We self-talkers used to be subject to threats of things like padded cells and straightjackets. I kid. Seriously though, the advent of modern things, phone conversations through your car’s stereo system, for instance, have lent a sense of normalcy to the life of a selftalker. Am I in a conversation with all the people who live in my head or am I just discussing a TV series with my best friend on a phone call? On this day in question, with the tears streaming and the song playing and the car honking, I was simply barking out orders to myself. “Drive, Dina. Go, Dina. Turn the wheel, Dina. It’s just a song, Dina.”

As I made the right turn onto Bois D’Arc, the one that takes me by the red tiled roof of the FISD admin building where my husband went to elementary school and my father-in-law attended high school, I carefully made my way home. There were a few epiphanies realized as I sang and cried and contemplated life. First, Hear You Me is a beautiful song. I remember phoning my niece, Jenna, and asking for help with my daughter’s funeral music. The church said it would take a very long time for everyone to exit after the service. They asked for 30 minutes of music. Jenna gave me several songs, ones that my daughter liked and that would suit the moment. Secondly, it’s March 12th. This means I have exactly one month to brace for that day, our 17th anniversary of the death of a beautiful girl. Lastly, and this is something that occurred to me as I exited my car and made my way toward the front door, two things can be true at the same time. I can be sad. It can still be a beautiful day. Hear you me on that.