I was stunned at how quickly everything had happened with her illness. It was only a few months between the first news and her dying of cancer. Information was revealed in tiny bits, so between my blinding fear and her reticence in giving full disclosure, I didn’t grasp that she was dying until the last days. I sat beside her bed in the hospital, my mom a little bald bug with big brown eyes. After some time I said, “I’m sorry…” and she said, “I know.” That was really all that was said about any of it.
Musically I was fiddling with the new piano I’d acquired for my house, writing new pieces. Pieces, they were, not complete songs. I didn’t have cancer, I had writer’s block. Or some run-of-the-mill depression. I experimented with new chord voicings, slower tempos, and orchestral instruments. Experimentation extended to my facial hair, covering half my face with some remarkable mutton chops. I carried a fleece blanket into my psychoanalysis sessions to stay warm.
“It’s Time To Go” is a lyrical extension of my conversation next to the hospital bed. It’s also a conversation I am having with myself about getting past my grief, letting go of that fear and getting on with my life.