American Pie

In the days and weeks just after my father died, every time I got in the car I heard “American Pie” by Don McLean. My husband, mother and sister had the same experience.

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I drove to our local apple orchard Wednesday morning to gather some Halloween decorations.

As I headed westbound, toward home, I decided to take the more direct, rural route. I turned off the main drag and onto bumpier, older blacktop and a vista opened up before me.

The sky was a deep azure, marshmallow clouds casting shadows on trees ablaze with persimmon, scarlet and gold. Through the vents I caught the scent of burning leaves, carried on the brisk wind.

The light was pure; the quality of which you only see in autumn. Tall prairie grass swayed gently, partially obscuring a pair of small, worn white barns standing sentinel over the field like an elderly couple patiently awaiting death’s arrival.

A cliche of endless horizon confronted me, my heart opening as wide and flat as the land laid out before my eyes. I felt my lungs expand, growing larger with each deep breath. It was the first air I’d ever tasted.

On and on I traveled, alone in the car, my soul bared and the scabs ripped off my tired eyes.

I turned a corner into the more familiar suburban neighborhood just blocks from my house. Blinking at the signs – Walgreen’s coming soon! Self-storage, climate controlled! – I heard a hum in my veins.

home home home

Suddenly Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” gave way to the sweet, reedy voice of Don McLean.

A long, long time ago…
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while

My face, wet now with tears, cracked in a smile.

“Daddy,” I whispered. “Daddy, I miss you. Thank you, Daddy.”

I’ve lived here for nearly 14 months; last week I saw this place, my home, for the very first time.