Fathers

My girls and I went to NYC today to see Sting's musical The Last Ship.  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but what I got well exceeded my expectations.  This was a brilliant show.  (IMHO, of course.)  The talented cast, the set, the choreography, the story, the songs . . . all extremely well done.  The fact that Sting was IN the show was also a nice touch.  I first saw Sting 34 years ago; I saw him in his white overalls in a few concerts by The Police.  And then I saw him several times after that as just Sting.  But it was certainly nice to see him again.  Yes, it's always nice to see Sting.

The story behind The Last Ship is a story of fathers and sons.  And it's a painful story.  Admittedly, I was skeptical about how the father/son issues would be resolved in the second act.  And I was prepared to pounce if there was a happily-ever-after ending to an impossible-to-rectify conflict.

Basically, the plot involves a boy and a girl in love.  Boy runs away from his abusive father to go to sea, but promises the girl he will come back for her.  And he does.  Fifteen years later.  At which point, she has a 15-year old son and a man who has long loved her and her son.  Which "father" does the son choose?

Clearly, I was championing the "father" who'd been there to raise the boy.  I was taken completely off guard by my tears during the scene where the returning son goes to his father's grave to scream his rage, and instead, utters these words (from the song Ghost Story):

The moon's a fingernail and slowly sinking
Another day begins and now I'm thinking
That this indifference was my invention
When everything I did sought your attention

You were my compass star
You were my measure
You were a pirate's map
A buried treasure

If this was all correct
The last thing I'd expect
The prosecution rests
It's time that I confess: I must have loved you 

Those last words, I must have loved you, resonated so strongly inside me.  Without going into detail, I was one of those wounded birds who, for most of my life, felt that my father just didn't love me.  His early death when I was 22 allowed me to make him somewhat marginal in my memory.  Did he love me?  I don't have the answer to that question.  But in that moment on stage today, I realized that it doesn't matter so much whether or not he loved me.  What matters is that I must have loved him.

I cannot articulate this cathartic moment.  All I can tell you is that tonight, I am in love with the love that I had . . . or have . . . for my father.

Thank you, Gordon Sumner.