On Wednesday April 22nd 2020 I sat on my bed watching a livestream of the band Fountains Of Wayne performing their song Hackensack. One member of the band was missing – Adam Schlesinger, the writer of the song, and my dad, had died three weeks prior on April 1st. He was only 52. This performance was a part of Jersey 4 Jersey, a benefit for the New Jersey Pandemic Relief Fund. I sat there frozen, watching the remaining band members Chris, Jody and Brian play; I recognized them from early childhood memories and dinner time stories. The song they played seemed to echo my crushing grief. 

Previously, like any other moody teenager, I made a huge effort to make clear how uninterested I was in my dad’s job. I rolled my eyes when his most popular song, Stacy’s Mom, played at a summer camp dance party and complained endlessly about his loud piano playing while I was trying to do my homework. I was a much bigger fan of his cooking – his Japanese style chicken karaage was my favorite.

But now, I grasped for anything that brought my dad back to me. I combed through Fountains Of Wayne’s discography frantically searching for his jokes, opinions and advice. The music quickly became the most important part of my day, something that motivated me in a time when it felt like my life was entirely over. I felt like, by listening to his songs, I could put together this puzzle that allowed me a glimpse of my dad.

It became a sort of secret ritual: the second I had a moment myself I’d hit play on my Fountains Of Wayne playlist, named Highway because most of those moments happened when I was alone in the car. It felt too revealing to share with even my closest friends; I told myself nothing ruins a fun hangout like forcing everyone to listen to your dead dad’s music, even if it is really good.

I was always obsessed with my dad: I wore his clothes more than my own, every opinion of his became mine too, and I rushed to repeat his jokes to all my friends like a little parrot. But what was so special about our relationship is that he was just as obsessed. He always asked what my sister and I thought about whatever he was working on and genuinely cared about and considered our opinions in his work. He knew about all my friends and cared about what was up with them too. The most common thing people said to me in their condolences was just how much he talked about us. 

He kept a photo of the two of us on his desk. In it he sits at our old kitchen counter, looking at his computer with a guitar on his lap – probably working on a song – and there I am, at four years old, sitting right next to him, staring at my own toy barbie computer and mirroring the concentrated look on his face.

Now, it’s been four years since he died and my world looks nothing like the one he knew. I live an ocean away from New York, the city that he seemed to know everything about. I miss the way that I knew I was doing something right when I mentioned a diner that my friends and I loved and he would tell me he loved that place and used to go there all the time when he was younger. 

But I still find him here in London, in funny shop front signs and cute dogs that I pass by on the street. These days, while listening to his music often leaves me sad and longing for just one more dinner or car ride with my dad, it also fills me with confidence, reminding me of the way he believed in and loved me and my sister. He made me feel so funny and smart, like I could do anything because he would always be there to help. I know that when I feel uncertain sitting on the overground on my way to school I know that all I have to do is take out my headphones and hit play on that same “Highway” playlist and there he will appear, sitting next to me again, laughing and telling me that I don’t need to worry because I got this and it’s gonna be great. 

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