I have a strong aversion to music from the 1970s and 1980s. I get a terrible feeling listening to soft rock.  I’m grossed out when Michael Jackson croons. 

I don’t know if it’s because my Dad died in the 80s, but I really try not to think about it, cause if I do, I’m afraid I may get trapped in a dark headspace. 

I might think about how it was the music my parents listened to on date nights, how my dad probably sang along to them on the radio. How it was then tainted by by the rest of the decade that represented tragedy, loss, and grief before healing was to make any headway. 

I don’t want to go backwards. When I hear music from that decade, perhaps my psyche aches with a 31-year old ache, but with the helplessness of a 5-year-old. 

Who’s to say? 

But right now, as I listen to Steely Dan’s  “Do It Again” lyrics bleed through the speakers at Starbucks, I  want to cry, because my Dad’s name was Jack and I am still not over it. 

I have a new dad, well not really new – he’s been my father most of my life and I love him very, very much. We had lunch today, and it was nice. He had been helping me with a household project – a very dad-like job – and it was so nice. 

So you see, I want to just stay here, in 2017, where my ceiling is fixed, and my father and I laugh over lunch and stories. I don’t want Starbucks to send me back to the 80s. 

But it does, and I can’t do anything to help it, and I suppose that deep down, I don’t really want to. Because that would mean I stop remembering that three decades ago, my soul started down another timeline, and I will always harbor inside that timeline I left. 

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