Hey, Kurt

Kurt Cobain is the main musical influence of my life. He is the reason I picked up the guitar.

One year ago on the 25th anniversary of his passing I took a pilgrimage. To see him. My friend. To see where it happened. To grieve. And to place a hand on young me’s wounded chest again. There was a score to settle, and I wasn’t prepared for how intense and overwhelming being there would be.

Viretta Park — Seattle, Washington, 2019. Photo by A.L.

Viretta Park — Seattle, Washington, 2019. Photo by me

I wrote him a letter on the plane ride up. As a 16-year-old his passing jarred me to the bone. Another betrayal. Spread hopelessness within me like a cancer. While writing him I rediscovered the anger surrounding how he passed, and the guilt I had for being angry at him for leaving.

So through eyes that couldn’t see I read what I wrote out loud at Kurt’s bench, finally said what I and young me needed to say. Then left the letter with the others.

Viretta Park — Seattle, Washington, 2019. Photo by A.L.

Viretta Park — Seattle, Washington, 2019. Photo by me

It was SO heavy being in the park adjacent to his old house. Surreal. Nobody said much, it was dead quiet. They tore down the greenhouse he died in years ago. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen footage of that property or heard about the bench Kurt used to sit on. It’s taken awhile to talk about all this. I hid it pretty well from everybody for a long time, the damage. I was afraid of the ridicule, of being seen as weak, or of being misunderstood.

Thank you for your gift, old friend. I miss you. I’m sorry you had to go and I wish you were still here.❤️

I hope it’s peaceful wherever you are.

MPOP Museum — Seattle, Washington, 2019. Photo by me

Seattle, Washington, 2019. Photo by me

Viretta Park — Seattle, Washington, 2019. Photo by me