I don’t know why I’m doing this but Alex told me it would help and he’s sitting across the room from me – watching me all worried like, y’know? Not that there’s anything to be worried about, but he likes to take me on sometimes and feel like he can teach me a few things. He’s learned a whole lotta things since his re-hab and AA and sometimes I don’t like to admit it, but he can teach me a few things sometimes. Well, maybe not teach, but remind me of a few things I forget.

Like that first time we were up in the studio after he came back, and all five of us fellas were busy working on some new material. Alex and I went outside for some air…or, actually, not since he’s still smoking…but anyway, we went outside and it’s just frikkin’ COLD out there, y’know? We’re in long sleeve tee shirts and jeans and watching our breath rise up under the spotlight just outside the door. And, Dad, it was so quiet. Remember that kind of quiet it gets just before dawn? It’s dark, and quiet and cold and the two of us were just standing out there shivering and sayin’ nothing. And it just felt…I don’t know what it felt. It was like there was just nothing wrong in the world and it was perfect for those few precious seconds. No worries at all. Just standing outside – and I remembered that it used to be easy like that, I guess. Home, at the break of dawn, just standing outside on the porch right after the snow fell before we started shoveling. Do you remember? We’d just stand on the porch, watching our breath in the air and looking around at that perfect blanket of snow. Sometimes I got the feeling that you didn’t want to disturb it either. Am I right? Well…probably, yeah.

But anyway…we’re not in the studio now, but he’s hanging around. It’s kinda funny. Being little, I’d hang out with GJ and Tim and they’d get so annoyed and I really wasn’t doing anything but tagging along. It took these guys to make me realize what it was GJ and Tim got annoyed about. But when they’re not there, it’s kinda strange how you miss ‘em buggin’ you after awhile.

And even now, it’s just not the same. None of us are, I guess. It’s funny. All those years I wished I was older so I could teach them a thing or two – and dang, if that wish didn’t come true – doubled! Instead of 2 little brothers, I got 4. Blood or not. Even if you never met 3 of them. (Hell, you probably wouldn’t even recognize Brian!) But still, even if you never met them, somehow, we did become like family. Like you used to say ‘warts and all.’ And those 2 years apart – at first it was pretty cool. Kinda like a time out or something. But after awhile, we just sort of started drifting back again. GJ went off to college and right about Christmas, I’d be glad to see him again. Only, this time, Christmas took more than three or four months.

And we watch out for each other, Dad. All the brothers, blood or not. We watch out for one another, keep each other in check and offer that shoulder or shove when we need it, just like you taught. I never thought it could be so hard. It always seemed so hokey and just common sense, but when the crap is flying around and you don’t have anywhere left to duck behind, it ain’t as easy as all that. But you knew that, too, didn’t you?

And I’m doing what you taught me. I’m giving back, you know? Raising hell, and my voice when I can to make others aware of what’s going on around them. JWR is holding its own and we’re reaching people, making them think which, is all you can ask sometimes, right? But I’m trying to make a difference and carry on what you started. See that appreciation for the people and the country around me. And I’ve seen a lot of country – in all different countries, all around the world and you were right. They’re not all that different from us deep down. I’ve seen them laugh and cry and hold on, pray and hope. Doesn’t make a difference what language they use, it’s all the same in our hearts. Good and bad on all sides, but I’m still trying to see the good. Make you proud.

I talk to you sometimes, you know that? I still have times when I want to go pick up the phone and call you and have you tell me what I should do. Sometimes, I think you answer me, too. Sometimes, I think you’re there, just watching me and shaking your head. Almost hear the ‘you know better than that.’ Sometimes I wonder why it’s so easy to hear the criticism and not the part where you tell me I’m doing good, that you’re proud and then I doubt the whole damn thing. But I do know better. It’s all there, isn’t it? Criticism and praise and love.

I think I’m an okay man, Dad. I know how to love, express it. I know how to fight, physically and verbally, and more importantly, I think I know WHEN. I take care of the ones I love, look for the truth around me, see the beauty and know how to enjoy the gifts I’ve been given. I know when it’s time to work, and work hard. I know when to play, and do that hard too. I strive to find that balance you talked about. I strive to be the son you deserve, all of us do. And I’m pretty sure you’d be proud of us.

But I still want to hear you tell me that. I still want you to see what I’m doing, know the people in my life, hold mom’s hand again and laugh. I want to toss a football around and drink a beer and see you backstage when I come off, hear the songs we’re writing, meet my beautiful wife… Just everything. I want you here. It still feels like sometimes it’s all missing something. That you’re just going to walk into the room. I catch myself looking at the doorway still, waiting. Even if I know better, it doesn’t matter…just in case…just in case…

So, why am I doing this? Because when Alex and I were standing outside that night, and it was so precious and quiet and still… I don’t know. I just…cried. There was an ache in my heart to be standing on the porch with you just one last time, precious and quiet and still and just the two of us at the break of dawn, saying absolutely nothing and not needing to. I guess it surprised him because we’ve been talking about you since and he suggested…this: a letter. No one ever has to see it, read it. When I’m done, I’m supposed to burn it and the words will float up into the air and you’ll find them somehow. And I’ve done just about everything else I can to talk to you…what’s one more attempt?

And in the end, all I can tell you is the thing you already knew all along.

I love you, Dad.

Your son,
Kevin