Bring Me With You

I poured myself a Tito’s and a Gatorade Zero over four ice cubes in a pint glass and sat in my office. My dad and I have been talking, and it seems we both feel I've come full circle. I feel a sense of belonging where I am. We've been reconnecting dots from now to the past, bouncing back and forth between them.

The conversation started because I picked up a stack of old letters from him, along with a few from my grandmother, mom, and family. All were addressed to me at school during my freshman year of college, and for the life of me, I can't remember saving them. I've known I had them for some time now; I just never sat down to read them. Who knows why I didn't? It strikes me that I was afraid of something. Looking back now, I realize I was afraid of confronting parts of myself from then. I still am, not even sure exactly why.

It's unbelievable to hold these letters. Reading them is both exciting and paralyzing. Just touching the envelopes brings me back in time. Taking them out and unfolding them is both anxious and joyful. As I read them, it’s 1981 again. And yet, it's still now. My father and family held these letters and breathed on them. Decades later, their words to me are right here, right now. The dots are connecting with a profound collapse of time. I love these moments.

This connection has me feeling back home—not to any physical address, but to the core of my soul. I'm willfully free of thought, yet aware that I'm deep in a quiet space while in conversation.

I turn to my dad and hear, “Carry on my wayward son. There’ll be peace when you are done.” I never knew Dad to even listen to music, let alone know any Kansas lyrics. His best quips are usually his own, but he’s always had a few go-to quotes. This one was surprising—then again, maybe not.

“Bring me with you.”

I heard him clear as day. He has said this to me before, but it's clearer now than ever. I love our conversations. His guidance and love are always present. I’m so grateful and appreciative. He always makes me smile and can often bring me to laughter—because Dad died in 1998.

Connection becomes continuity, and legacy is of the heart and soul. There’s nothing between him and me now. No space. No time. I am to bring.  him with me. Not that he hasn’t been with me; I just wasn’t checked in enough with myself to always remember. I had to quiet down to really connect. In doing so now, I recall another of his quotes—one he gave me years ago that I taped inside a professional binder I used early in my business career. It’s from the Montreal Canadiens locker room, and it reads, “To you from failing hands, we pass the torch.”

A father's son. Blood of his blood and of one spirit. I am to pick up where he left off, carrying his spirit and beating to the best part of my own drum. I fully expect my dad to tell me it may be best if he holds one of the sticks. I don’t know what song we are to play yet; I just know to play in harmony with him. The right words to the right song will come. The words always have. I just have to find the rhythm and balance of the tune. And I’m bringing him with me so I can.