My Life Measured in Pixars

A few years ago on Mother's Day, I called a friend of mine who had recently lost her mom. I asked her what she was up to, and she said she was hosting a "dead moms club soccer game". We laughed, and I asked if I could steal her idea for Father's Day.

While I haven't started a dead dads club soccer team, I do find dark humor to be one of the greatest forms of therapy. And in honor of my girl Tay Tay’s new song for Toy Story, I thought I'd share another favorite form of therapy: poetry. Also because I’ve been reading a lot of historical fiction lately, and people used to write poetry, so maybe I’ll try to bring that back.

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The year after my dad died, I registered for a poetry class at Tech, mostly because the class only met once a week, and how hard could a poetry class be?

The professor asked us to call him Travis, and his hair was longer than mine. Six of us sat in his first floor office with a view of Tech Walkway, my favorite part of campus. On our first day, he asked each of us to share an “obsession”. I was last, so I had time to mull over whether to choose Taylor Swift or Harry Potter. My peers each shared obsessions, things like Russia, Pixar, Outer Space, personal health. I listened, and in my head I settled on Winter, as it seemed to encompass many of my obsessions: home, coziness, sweaters, scarves, and in some ways, both Taylor and Harry.

I half listened to each person's passion while mentally drafting my winter poem, and thinking that the assignment was a bit unimaginative.

“Now, you’re going to choose someone else’s obsession and write about it,” Travis instructed. Surprised, I looked down at my notes.

The soundtrack to Anastasia was the first CD I ever owned, so Russia seemed like the obvious choice. But I later settled on Pixar, as the films seemed to age with me.

“My Life Measured in Pixars”

Four years old lazing in front of a box TV

on a carpet stained with lipstick, my sister’s latest writing utensil.

I idle on a jungle blanket, my cat held hostage in my left arm,

the continuous clicking of the keyboard behind me,

a steadfast sound in the background of my earliest memories.

Mama, listening to a disembodied voice at odd hours.

Me, never far away.

Flying grasshoppers and talking ants glide in front of me:

not my favorite movie

But it keeps me occupied.

Third grade

Movie theater crowded with families escaping the Alabama sun.

My dad finds a row that fits his parents, my mom, my sister and me.

Just keep swimming.

Leaving the theater, mom remarks that she doesn’t really like Ellen,

But she was funny in this.

I wonder who Ellen is.

Summer night at the drive-in,

capping off a catastrophic freshman year—

the year my mom and my dad became my best friends.

My parents, sister and I pull up in the minivan

That my mom insists is sporty.

We picnic in the parking spot,

my whole world fitting between two parallel lines.

Nine o’clock, and it’s finally dark. We crawl into the backseat.

Saltwater streams down my cheeks as the credits roll.

I look over to see my dad brushing at his face,

To infinity and beyond.

Summer before senior year

The sidewalk emanates heat waves under my flip flops

as my friends debate between Magic Mike and Brave.

The theater facade towers over us, watching us deliberate.

The group splits down the middle.

I sit next to my friends who in a year I will no longer talk to,

but for now we enjoy the innocence of Scotland.

Halfway through college

And my first Pixar without my dad.

But I’m with a new dad—my favorite cousin, whose son was born the week before.

Opening weekend, filled with giggling kindergarteners.

I watch as Joy and Sadness battle within my own heart for victory.

The result is bittersweet.

Other than actual therapy, the poetry class was some of the greatest therapy I received in college.

And I'd be remiss to write in June without mentioning that our family has grown, and we got to use my dad's first name. (My dad's middle name was Albert, which was not on our list. My grandma once, after asking me to remind her of her son's middle name, remarked to me, "Why did I do that?") We welcomed Thomas Gabriel Garn on June 8. Happy Father's Day, Clint!

And Happy Father's Day to Papa! Who also just so happens to be our newest neighbor.