The Songs We Carry

Chapter LXXI · From The Pocket Dad: What I Learned Along the Way

July 28, 2026

Bruce is in my arms, and there's something to be said about the solitude of being in the NICU late at night. The lights are dim. I'm alone with nothing but my thoughts, Bruce's coos, the occasional cry, and the Boss to keep us company.

It's a playlist of the songs I grew up listening to with my mom. These were the songs she blasted while flooring her candy apple red Plymouth Acclaim: Born in the USA, The Promised Land, Land of Hope and Dreams, Thunder Road, Born to Run, Long Time Comin', Devils & Dust, & The Rising.

I'm reminded of how fragile things are. A car company that no longer exists. A mother and grandmother who have since passed on.

The time alone with Bruce allows me to reflect. On my life, my choices, on where I want to go. I've been running for so long — from my beginnings, where I grew up, from my drug-addicted mother. But instead of running, I sit here and ask myself: Who would Bruce want me to be? Who would my mom want me to be?

My grandparents are all gone now. Mom too. But somehow, they're still here. Even now. In this moment. I can feel them.

I see my grandma in my son. In his chin. I see myself in his face. My grandfather in his ears. I see my wife's mother in his nose. I see all of his ancestors. My Hometown. My Father's House.

I'm full of love for him. I'm full of optimism for the future. But for now, I'm content with this moment. I want nothing more than for him to be healthy so we can leave the NICU together.

Maybe that's one way our loved ones continue. Not through anything mystical necessarily, nor patriotism, but through the songs we choose, the stories we share, the names we give, and the traditions we carry forward. For years I rejected everything my mom ever stood for; I was constantly running from who I was.

Today, all I have to give my son is my presence, my voice, and the music that once filled the car rides of my childhood. Maybe that's enough.