I’ve spent lots of time analyzing and lamenting the fact that I don’t get too emotional over 3’s death. Talking about it, writing about it, even just thinking about it doesn’t often change my mood. That being said, a couple of moments from the past few weeks have made me realize that there is one very familiar key to my otherwise shriveled, useless heart: music.
I’ve always been musical, reveling in orchestral arrangements and modulations. It makes sense that music would make me actually feel the loss of 3 far more than just thoughts or words. It’s usually not the expected songs, either. I didn’t cry at Miranda Lambert’s “Over You,” and I just roll my eyes every time I hear Ke$ha’s “Die Young.” It’s the slightly less-expected, occasionally more subtle songs that really get to me.
I came to this realization the other day as I was in my car (lots of breakthroughs happen to come while I’m driving) and Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” came on the radio. I didn’t think twice, I just started singing, pretending, as usual, that my voice perfectly mimicked Ms. Houston’s. At some point during the second verse, I couldn’t sing anymore. My voice caught in my throat and my eyes welled up. Well, shit. Turns out that giant, symphonic songs with soaring vocals about leaving someone you love trigger something in me. Good to know.
After watching 3’s final video on Sunday, I was sad but not overwhelmed. A few deep breaths, and I was back to normal. Then I got in the car. I clicked one of the radio preset buttons in the usual order, just in time to catch the last chorus of Nickelback’s “Far Away,” the one with the key change and the lyrics “I wanted, I wanted you to stay/’Cause I needed, I need to hear you say/That I love you, I have loved you all along/And I forgive you for being away for far too long.” Uuuuuuuuuuuuugh. A rising key change and oddly appropriate lyrics speaking to a brother who killed himself? I was gone. This marks the second time since 3’s death that I’ve cried at a Nickelback song. Please don’t judge me.
I suppose I should be grateful, and I am. It’s comforting to know that I still can feel something, even if such feelings are seemingly far less intense and more fleeting than the ones experienced by Mom and RJ. That is the function of music, after all: to say things that we can’t and express emotions that we won’t.
Real or Not Real? 