As I’ve said on every social media outlet I belong to, Bruce and I saw City and Colour last night. Or, more accurately, Bruce was kind enough to accompany me to see City and Colour. I know it’s not really his bag, so I really do appreciate him braving the cold and a late night to go with me.
Without going into a discussion about the music itself, this was therapy.
I remember driving home from the hospital at 2 in the morning, after spending the previous 12 hours waiting for my grandmother to come out of a coma, listening to City and Colour. When the internal bleeding and stress became too much for my grandmother’s failing body to handle and she passed away, I listened to City and Colour. On the drive from the church to the cemetery, I listened to City and Colour. In the sadness and chaos that followed the death of the matriarch of my mother’s side, I listened to City and Colour.
It may seem odd that a band that has such an emotional to something so sad can still be considered a favorite, but, in truth, it’s a favorite because of that. For me, it kept life moving when so many members of my family allowed my grandmother’s death to, essentially, stop theirs.
But last night’s concert was therapy.
I was with a man I love. In a city I love. Living a life I love. Seeing a band I love. I didn’t relive bad memories. I made new ones. Memories of living.
