Refrain

 I'm definitely getting old. I yet to fully embrace my father's weepiness. He used to cry every time he heard Stars and Stripes Forever. Or Amazing Grace. Or a car horn. 

Okay, that last one might be stretching it a bit, but as I grew up in that shadow, I was sometimes embarrassed by those displays of emotion and later I found that I could relate to them quite well. John Philip Sousa doesn't do it for me, but I do get a lump in my throat when I hear The Dropkick Muphys' version of Amazing Grace, and whenever I sing along with Mister Springsteen's Badlands I've got tears in my eyes at the end. 

"It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive."

My wife made a little framed bit of calligraphy that hangs over my desk reminding me of this sentiment. 

Because that's what all of that compressed joy is about. Feeling all the feels and holding on until it bubbles up to the surface. The wife that made me that nice memento will cry at just about any wedding. Reruns of Friends or The Big Bang Theory, it doesn't matter if she's seen them dozens of times before. Have a tissue ready for her. And you'll need a whole box if she goes to the nuptials of a friend or family in person. 

I will also admit that as I fill up with my own memories of fatherhood and domestic bliss, I feel that dam behind my own eyes tested. Looking back and remembering the way we were, or imagining how things might turn our for my son and his posse. They've started to marry off. And have kids of their own. 

In just a few weeks I will be going to see Bruce Springsteen in concert for the (checks notes) kerjillionth time. I will make a point of standing between my wife and my son who will be there with me. In my heart I know that my father will be getting all misty as he watches me sing along with the Boss. 

It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.