I never listen to Tracy Chapman without thinking of Rachel, my stepdaughter in another life. It was she who introduced me to Tracy when we were all young.
I hadn’t thought of Tracy in years actually, but I found an old CD of hers and transferred it to my iPod, the better to become reacquainted. Then, today I listened to her music as I did my two mile trudge at the health club.
I’ve reason to reconnect with Tracy, as this is the summer that Rachel’s father — my ex-husband — passed away. Without this incident, the odds of Rachel and my communicating were slim. She and I were never kindred spirits, even if we held Tracy Chapman in common. As I did my obligatory treadmill thing, I listened to Tracy and relived long limbo-ed memories.
Rachel was always a floor person. If you opened the door to her bedroom, chances were she was spread on the floor doing homework or some artistic project. She had a desk and chair in the corner, but they were used for warehousing wrinkled clothing and papers returned from various teachers.
She was also an animal person, so her room usually had a distinct odor of gerbil or hamster. Not unpleasant, merely different. One time Rachel and a friend of hers whose name escapes me decided to mate their respective animals; in the appropriate amount of gestation time, babies were born, and our house became a visiting hospital. The challenge was to place the babies into adoptive homes before we had a glut of four legged creatures on our hands. I believe we accomplished it.
I haven’t seen Rachel in almost fifteen years, although she has emailed me several times. But we’ve never made the effort to turn email into personal meeting. Who knows if we ever will? So I still remember her with crimson hair, a proud walk, freckles that made her beautiful instead of plain, and a defiance that probably stands her in good stead now.
Looking back, Tracy Chapman had some of the same qualities; maybe that’s why I like her still today.
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