Dream Weaver

It was one of those stormy, gloomy days — a Sunday, as it happens — and I was piddling inside my house, while listening to music. I should explain that I love rainy days, and that while I'm always listening to music, I don't always stick to the same genre. Certain playlists appeal more to me at certain times; I tend to sample the best of the best from each, depending on my mood. 

If you've read prior writings or know me well, you're aware that I became a music lover at a very early age. I was enthralled listening to my older aunts' and cousins' records. My mom and step-dad bought a Curtis Mathis stereo that came with promotional albums when I was in 4th grade, and my sister and I choreographed dances to almost every song. 

When most little girls were begging for Barbie dolls, I petitioned for a record player. If I could get my hands on a couple of quarters, I spent it on vinyl, rather than candy. I still have every worn out recording. 

It was only natural that I eventually marry a music man, and that my children, two girls and one boy, also appreciate music. Some of my favorite memories with them are Saturday morning concerts spun from our stereo. Casey Kasem had nothing on us! I knew every lyric ... as did my kids. There was a mutual understanding that you never spoke during a song, or you had to start it from the beginning! 

And so, whether 45's, albums, cassettes, CD's or Itunes, I have always been the "Keeper of the Music." As such, my children, grandchildren and friends often ask me to burn CD's for them. On the last day I ever saw my son, Brady, conscious — before he collapsed with a brain aneurysm — he had called and asked if I had time for us to make a CD together. Thank God, I'd said, "of course." 

What should take most people a few minutes, typically turned into hours for us. It was required that we listen to every song all the way through, often more than once, to make sure it was CD-worthy. And, on many of Brady's disks, he requested the song, "Dream Weaver," by Gary Wright. On this last day together, we eventually collected 80 minutes of the perfect melodies. He thanked me, kissed me goodbye, and left with his newest compilation, speakers blaring all the way down the street.

I had no idea that, within a matter of days, I would be loading that last playlist onto my Ipod. I rationalized that if anything could make Brady open his eyes or otherwise react — if anything could penetrate the deep recesses of his brilliant but critically injured brain — it would be music.

For days and days, there was the same ritual: Rush into his ICU room, kiss him, search frantically for any signs of improvement, whisper in his ear, get out the Ipod, gently position the earbuds, place his favorite childhood stuffed animal "Scroungy" in his arms, and watch ... hope ... pray for even the slightest sign of awareness, then remove the earbuds, retrieve Scroungy, reluctantly leave the room, sit in an ugly red chair in the waiting area, and charge the Ipod. 

In all of those maddening, bone-weary days, Brady never once responded, but I know he sensed these mother's eyes staring at him and my hands caressing his brow, and I know he listened to the music he had so carefully chosen. Every note. I could feel him hearing it. After all, it was our tool of unity.  

Alas, that same playlist became the music for his funeral visitation. We inscribed "Dream Weaver," on his memorial bench, right under the picture of him with the butterfly poised on his finger. "Music is My Weapon," taken from his favorite shirt, was etched on his grave marker. My little music man, honored for who he was, as best I knew how.  

But, going back to this particular rainy day which prompted this writing, I had my "Easy Listening" playlist queued. When the soft refrain of Poco's "In the Heart of the Night," began, I had a fleeting thought that I hadn't heard that song in ages, and that Brady would love it. It was one of dozens of songs that I had copied down lyrics in shorthand off the radio, then typed them so that his daddy's band could learn it ... one of myriad songs that had droned ad nauseum while they rehearsed then later performed it on stage. I welcomed it like a long-lost friend on this day.

I could imagine Brady's reaction to the song: Laying on the floor, his hands clasped behind his head for a pillow, eyes closed — taking in every note — then asking me to play it again, and again, and again.

As I listened to that song for about the fifth — or maybe tenth — time, an overwhelming, palpable sadness swept over me. Grief does that sometimes, well ... most times. You feel confused about your purpose and often find yourself grappling for some kind of new normal. Then it grabs hold of you, and tumbles you around and around in waves of despair until you can barely breathe. It flat makes you crazy. I never knew bereavement could be so incredibly powerful. Like music ... only different.

As I listened and felt my heart sinking, I also understood that I had pretty much invited the pain. I certainly had allowed it to creep in. In that same instant, I realized I was thinking about myself ... not about Brady. I was concentrating on my own loss. 

In this life that has been assigned to me, my faith has never wavered. I reminded myself, yet again, that my son is beyond happy. And then it suddenly dawned on me that he's hanging out every day with the likes of Elvis Presley, Karen Carpenter, Jim Croce, Marvin Gaye, John Denver ... and the list goes on and on.

So, rather than experience agony while listening to music, I sensed I should draw comfort from it. Because, just like I believe Brady heard every tune on that Ipod all those long, horrible, days, I believe he hears every song I play now. Always. He was never one to miss a thing. 

Consoled, I dried my tears and smiled. I said, aloud, to Brady's picture on my refrigerator, "Okay, buddy, I get it."

This process brings lessons each and every day. I've learned to look for my son in the things he loved. And, I've learned to accept as ordinary the things that once would have sent chills down my spine.

Like, when the very ... next ... song ... that played ... was "Dream Weaver."