I was in the kitchen, imitating Sam Cooke singing Cupid on a TV show. While turkey bacon is cooking, I’m mimicking the style of singing where the solo singers would stand mostly still. Their feet wouldn’t really move except to shuffle. They would stand right in front of the microphone, and if no microphone, they would still be in that spot for the whole song. I was imitating Sam Cooke to myself alone in the kitchen, and I thought my dad would think this was hilarious.
I have this theory that my dad probably realized how much the music he listened to, the secular music before he got saved, stuck with us. He listened to Sam Cooke and everyone up to Earth, Wind and Fire, and all those groups in between. A lot of those songs stuck in my head.
Then, I had this shattering thought: there’s a whole chunk of jokes that are not funny anymore because my dad isn’t here for me to tell them. We had so many inside jokes, like everything In Living Color, some Martin, and the Naked Gun movies with Leslie Nielsen. I would throw quotes and references into our conversations, and he was on it. It’s crazy to me that certain jokes don’t seem funny anymore.
This is a brutally fucked up feeling.