Bye Bye Miss American Pie

The Annual of Grief

Oct 24, 2022

“I met a girl who sang the blues

And I asked her for some happy news

But she just smiled and turned away”

The scent of blown out birthday candles always transports me back to childhood. A wish made, ripped colored paper. The room dark and hazy, laughter, icing.

Simpler times.

A time when you could ride your bike with your friends until sundown. Swim in creeks and build forts. Jump fences though neighbors yards, run through sprinklers and play Nicky Nicky nine doors.

A time where my father was alive and the concept of death didn’t even exist.

Decades before this, the charred remains of the airplane carrying Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and JP “The Big Bopper” Richardson marked the day the music died, Feb 3, 1959. The crash symbolizing the end of the idealistic fantasy of the 1950’s and the beginning of the musical and social revolutions of the 60s. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones. Jimmy Hendrix, Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin.

Charlie Manson and his family would crush the love era, bringing terror to the homes of America and fear to hearts worldwide.

The day the music died for my father was Aug 16, 1977. The day we lost the King of Rock n’ Roll. He told me that when Elvis left the building, it was one of the only times he cried. The only time I saw my dad cry was at his fathers funeral and then again when my mother told him her father had passed. Like a second father to him. It was heartbreaking.

The day my music died was Oct 24, 2021.

It’s been a year since that horrible day. Rainy and grey.

I had so much hope in the taxi, surely I’d get to say goodbye.

But it was cold hands and solitary sendoffs.

The end of an era, yet the beginning of something new.

I remember when I told my dad not to call me the nickname he’d given me.

Bunny.

“It’s embarrassing, please stop it,” I ranted, about 16 years old.

I can’t shake the look on his face. He hid his disappointment well, but thinking back, he didn’t at all. So stupid. I should have just let call me the fucking name.

When we are young we are so selfish and don’t even know it.

I’d give anything to hear him call me Bunny now.

I hate that he never met my daughter. I hate that he’s missing out on drinks and good times. I hate that my mom misses him.

I was so close to losing it last year when this all happened. Now I have a completely different life. I push my baby stroller through the park. The non threatening mom. People smile and nod at us now. They don’t turn away.

I don’t have any idea what the future holds. But I’m finally not worried about it.

And the three men I admire most

The father, son and the holy ghost.

They caught the last train to the coast

The day the music died.

The music may have died, but it slowly can be reborn.

PETER GRAHAM

Feb 20 1949 - Oct 24 2021