The hardest thing to see are the parents. The hardest thing to do is deliver the news, which of course, we all know can be devastating. I think of them. I think of the parents and the way they were the day their child was born. I assume they had dreams for their child and the look of amazement in their eyes. I think of the typical hopes they must have had and the ideas they had as parents. I am sure there’s an entire list of imaginations and fantasies. Meanwhile, a newborn child is brought into the world swaddled in a blanket.

The house was empty. Everything was gone and moved out. All the rooms were vacant of furniture and nothing was left, not anything in the cupboards in the kitchen, not anything in the sink, not anything but the life of memories, which my family had left behind. I could see the outline of picture frames on the wall, which in some ways appeared like a postmortem sketch of the lives that used to live here.
I was the last one to leave my childhood home. The Old Man had been gone for a while. Mom was about to move to Florida. My brother Dave was about to be married and I was moving out too.

We have spent most of our lives focused on the things that we do not have. We lose ourselves in comparison to other people. It’s true. We are taught what success looks like. We are shown examples of what our life is supposed to be, which is then compartmentalized and boxed in an almost mass–produced fashion. 
I can think of a list of people who told me how to be, how to think, to act, and what to wear and how to style my hair. I can think of people who suggested that I rethink myself; that I reconsider my career choices because for whatever the reason might be, in their words, “There is no room for me in places like this.”

It’s true.
Everyone is there to celebrate. It’s true to say that people love fame. They love the bright lights and the red carpets. Everyone loves the high-life, the fashions and the idea of private jets or vacations in Monaco. You think of places like a stay at Hotel De Paris in Monte Carlo or a walk around the yachts in Monaco Harbor. You imagine yourself at check-in, approaching the desk and asking questions like, “Excuse me, but is my suite ready yet?”
It’s true. Everyone is around when the lights are bright and the drinks are free. Everybody’s there when the venue is “All you can eat” and somehow, you, yourself are seen as a conduit to a life beyond comparison. Let’s face it, anyone can buy themselves a sunset view.

I figured since this journal is about relationships and friends, I should share a little information about one of my closest friends. I suppose this friend is not specific to me. However, our relationship is specific to me. This is about music. This is about the real phases of my rebellion and the soundtracks of my youth. Some were loud, hard and fast. Some of the music I listened to was quiet and soft.

It’s been a while though . . .
It’s been a while since we all got together. It’s been a while since we went to a show and screamed the songs and sang with the bands. I miss live music. I miss the feeling after a show when the energy is still flushing through your system. I miss the crazy angst before the concert and then finally, the band took the stage and like a switch, the blood beats faster.

I wonder if kids actually know what music is. I wonder if their love for a song is the same as what mine was when I was their age. I mean, do they even know? I do. I remember the connection to the albums. I remember listening to the songs, over and over again, just so I could learn the lyrics.

There are times when the world is just right. The City is on my side and the night is brightened by the streetlights and the glow from Midtown’s Times Square.
There are times when I can stand on the roof of a building at Lexington Avenue with a cup of coffee in hand and my eyes geared towards my downtown memories or my old, uptown life.

I remember being a child in a classroom and reacting to the sight of the first snowfall. All the kids ran to the window. Completely amazed. And of course, the teacher instructed us to return to our seats. I swear, sometimes I feel like a kid in a classroom, just waiting for a big snowfall.
I want to see something worthy enough to run to the window and hear the “oohs and ahhs” of the room. I want to feel amazed. And it’s wintertime now. I’m grown and yes, as old as I am, I am still youthful, hopeful and wishful enough to think about the times when I’d try to catch a snowflake on my tongue. 

And then one day, you’re not a beginner anymore. The uphill climb isn’t so uphill anymore and you look back in amazement. Day one became day two and then two became three and four. Next, your “One day at a time” function has picked up and grew legs. Suddenly, the past is not as close as it used to be, which is enough to make you realize your position in life. It’s enough to show you who you were and who you are now.
I say this is amazing.

We gather in phases. This starts in our childhood and evolves as we grow. We start with birthday parties until eventually, you’re too old for clowns and balloons and birthdays just become birthdays. The next phase comes with communions and confirmations and things like that. Then we go through our little graduation get-togethers that happen at grade school. Then there’s middle school. Then there is the age of sweet-sixteens and proms. And then we spread out a little bit.
High school ends like a chapter in a book and suddenly, ideas like Mr. McLellan’s shop class or Driver’s Education and the glory days and the crazy nights are only a memory.