Perfect Strangers
I didn’t know my dad very well. I mostly know about him from other people’s stories. My parents were divorced when I was five years old. I have no memories of my dad during those early years because he was not there—he was serving two terms in Vietnam as a Marine officer. Things didn’t work out so well for him and my mom when he returned. So, my mom packed up her three girls and our belongings in the back of a four-door truck along with the pregnant cat, and we headed out west to California, where my grandma lived, leaving the East Coast in a trail of dust. Along the way, my younger sister and I came down with Chicken Pox, and the cat had kittens. I can only imagine how stressful this must have been for my mom. My sisters and I grew up in California and Colorado. My dad ended up in Florida and eventually retired on a farm in Tennessee.
I remember once he came to Colorado and stayed in a motel in Grand Lake for a night. There were a few phone calls here and there. However, it wasn’t until I was an adult that I desired to get to know him better. Once, when I was making a trip to Nashville to attend a music conference, I emailed him to let him know I would be coming to Tennessee in a few weeks and would like to visit. I looked at my schedule and said I would try to come down on a Tuesday around noon. We had no further communication, and I wasn’t even sure I would go—but I did. I borrowed a car from a friend and made the two-hour drive to the farm—no phone call, no text.
When I pulled into the drive, he was standing there, waiting at the front gate. I was so surprised. I wondered how long he would have waited if I hadn’t shown up. I studied him throughout my visit, watching his mannerisms and physical features, putting the pieces of information together like a puzzle. His fingers were long, like mine. His eyes were blue, like my sister’s. He called me Tri-SHA, emphasizing the “sha.” He was tanned and dirty from working out in the hot sun on the farm. When we said goodbye, he laughed, and it stopped me cold. It was my laugh—loud and boisterous. It was the same laugh I have when I’m trying to keep from crying—a laugh of uncertainty, hope, and love. The song Perfect Strangers tells part of this story.—a father and daughter.
I sent him the song, and I’m told he listened to it over and over on his computer.
Perfect Strangers
I’ve got your hands, I’ve got your smile
When I look into the mirror, it’s you I recognize
You’re a little like me, I’m a lot like you
Digging through the ashes, finding nuggets of some truth
In a field of stones, in a field of stones
We are perfect strangers
Yet somewhere deep inside I know you well
Worlds apart aren’t as far as they seem
Perfect strangers, you and me
You’ve got that laugh, that cuts through the room
When you are nervous, you bite your lip, I do that too
I apologize, I don’t mean to stare
It just amazes and intrigues me to see you standing there
It feels like home, it feels like home
We are perfect strangers
Yet somewhere deep inside I know you well
Worlds apart aren’t as far as they seem
Perfect strangers, you and me
I’ve had years to think about what I would say
When I met you face to face but the words have faded away
Time doesn’t wait, it didn’t save my place
It’s here, and now I see that fate has made no mistakes
You close the gate, and I drive away
If we’re never at this place again, at least we had today
Love is complete, love is complete