For the first year of my life, my dad held me in his arms and danced with me every night to help me fall asleep. He made a CD for the nightly ritual. He would start with Explosions in the Sky and rock back and forth and put me down in my crib by the time the disc reached Pinback’s “Fortress.” He curated a soundtrack for my new life, one that would engrave itself into my subconscious. One that would make tears well in my eyes for no apparent reason, years later,  as I sat in the backseat while he sped down Beverly Boulevard, past the insurance billboards and 24-hour Mexican restaurant with the chalk wall outside — Pupusas for $5! When I was little, every time I cried, I would quickly start hyperventilating. My dad rubbed my back. He instructed me to take five deep breaths. In and out. 

My mom is a cool mom. Not in a “Mean Girls” Amy Poehler way. In the Harley-Davidson-loving, moved-to-LA-straight-out-of-high-school, wild-untamed-head-of-curls way. Sometimes she still seems like she is 17 at heart. During high school, she always felt like an easier audience for my adolescent trials and tribulations than my dad, who stepped out at dinner to take a business call and fell asleep at family movie night.  

I called my mom at least once a day during my first year at school. 

I didn’t call my dad a lot of the time.

I didn’t think he’d be as interested in what shoes I should pair with a certain sweater, or the hometown and major of the boy I’d kissed that weekend.  

He probably would’ve been.

Had I ever called.

So, instead, he sends: “Miss you, kid. Have a great day!” 

But the days got shorter. My puffer jacket became my uniform. Various relationships became confusing and fraught. I picked a fight every time I spoke to my mom, and I didn’t really want to call her anymore. I started to call my dad. I wasn’t ranting about a paper assignment or asking for fashion advice. I was sobbing in my Vanderbilt bottom bunk, threatening to transfer, repeating, “I don’t know what to do.” And he kept his cool. “Five deep breaths.” And things felt better. 

After we’d hung up, he’d send me a song. “Just Say Yes” by Ken Andrews. And I’m 6 again, staring at the box TV in my parents’ bedroom of our old house. My dad and I are watching “Surf’s Up” on an early Saturday morning. I didn’t know that Ken Andrews had been in the band Failure, which my parents had seen play at the Knitting Factory in New York in the 90s. I didn’t know that this animated scene of two surfing penguins brought up memories of an earlier life for him. 

I kept listening to the song, and the days got longer. My breath evened out. I put my puffer in a storage box for the summer. 

When I went back to LA in May, I was drawn to his home office. Each time I opened the door, he paused his blasting music and stopped typing. He spun his chair to face me. 

“How are you, kid?”

“I’m good, Daddy. You can keep working.”

“You sure? Well, let me know if I should take a break.”

I’d station myself on the couch across from his desk,  reading “White Oleander” or scrolling through Pinterest as he typed vigorously, face hidden behind the wide desktop screen. He’d press play and the music would continue. “Count Me Out” by Kendrick Lamar. “$20” by boygenius. “Vampire Empire” by Big Thief. These were my songs. This was my playlist. 

Before I left for my first year of college, all of our family friends cracked jokes, asking, “What’s your mom gonna do? You guys spend all your time together!” No one ever seemed to consider my dad. The stoic one. The busy one. But here he is, playing Zach Bryan, The National, Phoebe Bridgers, SZA. 

Last weekend, a friend came over to hang out in my dorm room as I was getting ready for bed. 

I was already playing music from my speaker. 

He asked, “You fall asleep to music every night?”

“Every night,” I answered. 

I rock myself back and forth to “First Breath After Coma” and “Fortress” and “Just Say Yes.”  Taking a deep breath. In and out.