"All I Know." AKA...me and Garfunkel.
The first piano notes come from the song "All I Know" by Art Garfunkel. (sidenote: Wouldn't you change your last name if it was Garfunkel?).
My skin chills and the hairs on my arms stand up. This song has a tune that haunts me. Not even just the tune, but the words. The whole package.
"The endings always comes at last. Endings always come too fast. They come too fast, but they pass too slow. I love you and that's all I know."
"I love you and that's all I know." That's all I know. That's all I need to know. This song reminds me of my dad. Let me tell you why.
Ever since he died almost three years ago (oh, how it STILL pains me to type that), I have thought about what I would say to him if he would be able to come back for five minutes. I've often thought up these dissertations about how I could convey to him how much we all missed him and how much he meant to us. I would try to tell him that I was in awe of him my whole life. I looked up to him. I was proud of him and proud to be his daughter. I would tell him that I desperately wished there could have been more time, but it wasn't meant to be.
I would tell him that I thought of him every single day. I would tell him that I tend his grave like Miss Daisy. I would tell him that I was sorry I couldn't save him. I would tell him that I often talk about him, so my daughter won't forget him. I'd tell him how it took me two years to look at a picture of him. I would tell him how raw it all was for the first 3 months after he died. I would tell him that my life would never be the same.
But wait. I only have five minutes, right? Here's how I would make it go:
Dad: "Hi, Kid. I was allowed to come back for five minutes."
Angie: "Hi, Dad. How's heaven?"
Dad: (sighing and rolling his eyes) It's beyond anything you can imagine. I've told you that in your dreams about a thousand times."
Angie: "I love you, and that's all I know."
Dad: "That says it all."
That says it all.
Then I would sit and stare at him for the other four minutes. I would touch his arm. I would sit by him, really close, so I could smell his aftershave. I mean, I love him. What else is there to know? I wouldn't waste the other four minutes on some long-ass Gettysburg speech, for Christ's sake.
Four Score and Seven Years Ago, I love you. That's all I know.
My skin chills and the hairs on my arms stand up. This song has a tune that haunts me. Not even just the tune, but the words. The whole package.
"The endings always comes at last. Endings always come too fast. They come too fast, but they pass too slow. I love you and that's all I know."
"I love you and that's all I know." That's all I know. That's all I need to know. This song reminds me of my dad. Let me tell you why.
Ever since he died almost three years ago (oh, how it STILL pains me to type that), I have thought about what I would say to him if he would be able to come back for five minutes. I've often thought up these dissertations about how I could convey to him how much we all missed him and how much he meant to us. I would try to tell him that I was in awe of him my whole life. I looked up to him. I was proud of him and proud to be his daughter. I would tell him that I desperately wished there could have been more time, but it wasn't meant to be.
I would tell him that I thought of him every single day. I would tell him that I tend his grave like Miss Daisy. I would tell him that I was sorry I couldn't save him. I would tell him that I often talk about him, so my daughter won't forget him. I'd tell him how it took me two years to look at a picture of him. I would tell him how raw it all was for the first 3 months after he died. I would tell him that my life would never be the same.
But wait. I only have five minutes, right? Here's how I would make it go:
Dad: "Hi, Kid. I was allowed to come back for five minutes."
Angie: "Hi, Dad. How's heaven?"
Dad: (sighing and rolling his eyes) It's beyond anything you can imagine. I've told you that in your dreams about a thousand times."
Angie: "I love you, and that's all I know."
Dad: "That says it all."
That says it all.
Then I would sit and stare at him for the other four minutes. I would touch his arm. I would sit by him, really close, so I could smell his aftershave. I mean, I love him. What else is there to know? I wouldn't waste the other four minutes on some long-ass Gettysburg speech, for Christ's sake.
Four Score and Seven Years Ago, I love you. That's all I know.
posted by Nebraska Angie @ 8:14 PM
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