Dark Side of the Moon Maddie Culcasi

It always started like this: I am in my room watching TV or doing my homework when I hear an excited knock on my door. Shortly after, my dad flings my door open, beaming, telling me that I have to listen to this song that he just heard on the radio. As I sit up and put my headphones back into their case, my dad plugs his phone into my stereo’s aux cord and pulls up the song on Spotify. While nodding his head to the beat, he turns the dial on my stereo all the way to the right until the music is so loud that it shakes my dresser. We lay on my bed and watch as the bars on the side of the stereo jump up and down with the different sounds, mesmerized.

To this day, I have never seen someone able to experience music the way my dad does. Growing up, I would imitate him, certain that his was the only true way to listen -- the only way to be able to feel the music as deeply as he did. My ten year old self would lay on my back with my hands beneath my head mouthing the lyrics just like my dad. I would even cross my ankles and tap my feet to the rhythm as he would. I watched as my dad’s face hardened and softened with the music while staring up at the ceiling, as if he were having a conversation -- with the music or with a higher power, I...