photo by Beni Ishaque Luthor
I do a lot of rationalization, as it is our species’ only real tool for negotiating life. All the rationalizations are inadequate, of course, but I thought I would start by describing my most frequent: that she was too perfect.
There is a face that goes with the other voice in my head—the one that isn’t my own—it is that white, robed Jewish man with long brown hair featured in the pictures on the walls of the Episcopal church I grew up attending. And when I speak to that voice, the only reply has been: But she is with me now. (To be fair to the voice, it has been mostly silent for a while now.)
But. There are few words in the English language with which to more rudely start a sentence, and yet there is it.
The obvious question in all of this is Why? and I suspect I will be dealing with that word for a long time; and the only reason I can even imagine is that she was too perfect. Too perfect to be left down here with the rest of us. Too precious to ever have her heart broken. Maybe she was never really even one of us. A spirit girl.
There have been people I’ve had similar thoughts about before—Rich Mullins, Jeff Buckley, Carter Albrecht*—all musicians, and of the many things we can claim about Margot, one is that she was a musician.
There’s a new voice in my head now. It speaks really infrequently, but maybe that’s a good thing given my obviously fragile sanity.
It’s hers. She calls me daddy.
* Jesus and his fucking need for an All Star Band.