The other night I found myself listening to the song I wrote for Michael’s funeral. I haven’t listened to it or played it since that day, and yet it has withstood the test of time. Not all songs do, I’ve written so many that sound good for a week, a month, or three months — but then start sounding like crap. Not this one. It still chokes me up, it still resonates deep within my heart, and the tender simplicity of the structure soars clear and clean over any imperfections of performance.
It is beautiful, and I think, one of the best songs I have ever written.
Why are the poignant moments — the tragedy, the heartache, the despair — the ones that come through with startling clarity? Is it because those are the moments that show us who we really are inside? Because that’s when we find out what we’re truly made of?
Because we know ourselves most intimately when we are climbing over that mountain?
It might be time to write another song. One that tells about the climb, and the triumph at having faced your darkest fear to watch the sun rise again. No, I’m not there yet, but each day brings me closer and little by little, I’m seeing the blackened sky turn to light.