One of my favorite songs by the Rolling Stones. Your dad was proud that he remembered that. Always trying to prove to me that he was a good listener. Which he was. Better than most, better than me.
Thinking about why I can't seem to stop writing or thinking about what I will write. I take notes and have about 40 other ideas waiting to be written but then before I get to them, I am filled with more. I write in another notebook random memories or qualities about your dad that I'm afraid might not pop into my head ever again if I don't get them down. These words have become for me an anchor in a ocean of grief, as cliche as that sounds. They bring some small sense of order to the overwhelming freedom and self entitlement of grief. They corral the unpredictable, but curiously beautiful emotion- like wild horses forced into a confined space in the hopes that one day they may be ridden.