I think a lot about time and history. I think about who I am.
My father died when I was nine. I grew up knowing that he was sick–that he might die at any time.
Not surprisingly, that knowledge affected me.
And his death, when I was nine, also affected me.
But some other deaths affected me, too. The assassination of John F. Kennedy affected me. And so, too, did the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy.
“Anybody here seen my old friend John?
Can you tell me where he’s gone?”
JFK died in 1963. My father died in 1967. MLK died in 1968. RFK died in 1968.
Sometimes I just get confused.
I remember listening to Jim Croce and thinking that he was so great. I never thought about his race or ethnicity. I never heard anyone mention his race or ethnicity. He was just a great musician, and everyone loved him.
And then he died.
Now it seems so needlessly difficult for us all simply to admire the beauty that we all bring to this world. Jim Croce and his great colleague, Maury Muhlheisen, performed stunningly beautiful music.
Isn’t that enough?