Remembering the Red River Valley

I love music.  I have a wide range in interest, thanks in part to my parents- all four of them.  I also have a tendency to memorize lyrics quickly, and I often find myself quoting lines in certain situations. I associate songs with individuals, with events, with memories of completely random and otherwise insignificant moments.  

It's no surprise,then, that there's been a song stuck in my head these last couple of weeks.  For years I did not allow myself to think of the good times, the times before the molestation.  I was focused on avoiding thinking about the abuse and the abuser- and that included the happy memories with him.   When I began therapy, the focus turned to reliving, redefining, and responding to the abuse itself.   All along, that other side of the former parent-child relationship, those other memories, were necessarily and unconsciously squashed.  Faced with his all too human mortality, the memories came flooding back.  It has made for days of conflicting and contradicting emotions; at times nonchalant, and at other times overcome by heart-wrenching sobbing.  One of those memories is listening him to him play his guitar some nights, much like Pa Ingalls and his fiddle.  It is a happy memory, now encased in sadness.  

Come sit by my side if you love me

Do not hasten to bid me adieu

Just remember the Red River Valley

and the cowboy who loved you so true

I remember.