Snapshots of Grief

Looking for an Answer

Notes:

This continuation is a brief look at how Looking for an Answer possibly came about. At the tribute concert, Mike said he wrote Looking for an Answer eight days after Chester's passing, which would have been the Friday before Chester's service. 

Written October 30, 2017, post-Hollywood Bowl Concert
Disclaimer: This is all in my head except Mike's lyrics-- those belong to him and LP.

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You stand there with your bandmates, looking out over the crowd with tears in your eyes, feeling the emptiness in the space next to you. It's over, you all made it through, and right now that's all that matters. You're ok. They're ok. You all made it to the end. You sang through Roads Untraveled and you wiped the tears away while the crowd screamed Numb for Chester, and then you celebrated him and missed him and loved him out loud. And now it's finished. You made it. You're ok.

You and the guys decided against the new song you and Chester had started, opting instead to keep those lyrics for the next album. You'd been disappointed, but you knew you had something else you could offer. Something more powerful and raw. Something that would expose you and shine a light on your love for Chester more brightly than any interview, LPTV episode, or lyric you'd written ever had before. Something that came out of your personal darkness weeks earlier.

The night before the memorial service, you'd gone through the motions at dinner, halfway listening to your children chatter at you, pushing food around on your plate under Anna's distracted gaze. When she offered to get the children ready for bed, you'd simply nodded and taken your plate to the sink, leaving your dinner uneaten next to an unopened bottle of wine. Your eyes had fallen on the bottle right before your children- your babies, your life- came to you for goodnight hugs and kisses, telling you they loved you with faces full of worry. You felt guilty looking into each of their faces, seeing concern written over the innocence, cursing yourself in your head for not faking it better for their sake. As they followed Anna up the stairs, you thought, fuck it, and reached for the bottle opener.

Looking down into the swirling the merlot you poured, you realize you don't feel anything. The days have passed in an unbelievable blur, it seems impossible that tomorrow you have to say goodbye. How are you supposed to find words to say out loud? Everything you want to say to Chester is safely locked inside your head, forever now. I should have said something. I should have told him I loved him. He would have understood. It wouldn't have changed anything. But he would have known. Maybe he did know. I don't know. You close your eyes tightly and will yourself to stop crying before you start. You know if you start now, you won't make it through tomorrow. The wine glass is empty and you fill it up again, already feeling the numbing warmth radiate from your empty stomach. At least you're feeling something again. Maybe the wine will shut off your thoughts long enough to catch more than a few hours sleep. Maybe you'll get lucky and those hours will even be consecutive. You pick up the bottle along with the glass and turn off the kitchen light.

Almost before you realize it, you're standing in front of your studio door, glass in one hand, bottle in the other, and your mind screaming at you not to go inside. I just... I don't know where else to go. What do I do now? Without him? Where do I go? Another swallow from the glass, while you eye the door handle and then turn away with a sigh, heading down the hallway to your art studio. But I don't want to paint. I want to drink. And be alone. Alone.

You've hardly been alone at all the past 18 years, between the band, Anna, the kids, and Chester. Even on your days off, Chester was there, as regular in your life as putting on socks. You smile halfheartedly, thinking of Chester's endless shoe collection, and his passion for acquiring more. You feel like you've been in every shoe store in every city you've toured. It was your payback for the art museums, he'd said, even though you knew he appreciated art as much as you did. Chester toured with more shoes than you had suitcases. The tentative smile fades as you realize, you've done your last tour with him. No more teasing him about his shoes, no more art museums, no more local food, no more signing autographs in unlikely places when you were just trying to be regular guys. Everything, just done, over, gone. You shake your head, it's too hard. What am I going to say tomorrow? God, Ches, why did you leave me like this? Why didn't you just call me?

The heavy curtains you had installed to keep out the natural light when you don't want it are drawn when you step into the less familiar room, the smell of canvas, acrylic, and pencils hitting your nose. Instead of flipping on the light switch, you walk across the room and pull aside one curtain a few inches, staring out into the back garden. It's dark. It's what you want. The darkness feels comforting, it doesn't want anything from you, doesn't expect you to respond or smile, it's endless and empty like your heart. There's an inviting corner and you slip down to the floor, back against two walls, the words to Roads Untravelled sliding through your head in Chester's voice- and you if you need a friend, there's a seat here alongside me.You feel him there, you swear you can almost feel his hand covering yours, telling you it's alright. I need you to tell me it's going to be alright. How is it going to be alright? Are you ok now? All the things you could have done differently, that you could have not done at all, even, make their way through your mind, and you wonder if there was anything you could have said or done differently. How could you have changed this path you are both on, this path that left you alone and him... free. You lean your head back and tears threaten again, and since you're barely holding on as it is, you know you can't cry. I still just can't believe this is happening.

Maybe it's the wine, but suddenly you start to feel again, and it hits you all at once, the ache where your heart is supposed to be. How can emptiness hurt? What was that guy-who was that guy?- saying to me earlier? I wanted to punch him in the face, trying to tell me you're in a better place. How can you be in a better place if I'm not with you? That's not better, Ches, we're a team, you and me. I want you to be better, I hope it's better for you where you are. I'm sorry I wasn't enough to keep you here. Now what is keeping me? You were my sun, our sun, the brightness we all orbited. What do we do, now that you're gone. Are you really gone? What do I do?

You've turned poetic at the bottom of two glasses, and you remember there's a small keyboard in here, somewhere. You refuse to turn on the light, but feel around the surface of the bottom shelf of your storage area until you feel the familiar smoothness of the keys under your fingers. After a few attempts, you get it plugged in, and you settle down on the floor, bottle to your right, and start picking out chords until something starts to sound like the pain you feel. Before you know it there are words, falling out in whispers, taking on a life of their own.

There's an emptiness tonight
A hole that wasn't there before
And I keep reaching for the light
But I can't find it anymore...

You drink straight from the bottle while you work, and before you know it, you've written and tweaked the chords and played it so many times you've memorized it as the night turned into morning and the wine disappeared. You wonder if Anna had come to find you, or if she'd fallen asleep in the girl's room. It doesn't matter, you wanted to be alone with Chester anyway. You can't stand missing him and you can't stand the sympathetic look you get from your wife when you say his name. You've always said it a lot, but the past eight days, it's been the only name on your lips.

You remember how your back ached as you stood up unsteadily, feeling your age for the first time, and walked back over to the crack in the curtain, and sucked in a deep breath. You looked out the window, at the sky turning pink, and a smile touched the corner of your lips. "Morning, Chester," you'd whispered, "is there sunshine where you are?" You heard me singing, didn't you? Everything pink is you, Ches. I wish you were here, singing with me. You're so much better at that than I am. Your voice is beautiful, why didn't you believe me when I told you that? Did I say it too much? Did my words lose their meaning for you? You're beautiful, Chester. Hear me? Beautiful.

You still didn't know what you were going to say in just a few hours, and now you can't remember what you'd managed to say at all that day. You held it together at the memorial, same as you did tonight, and when you're back in the safety of your studio tonight, you'll let it all go again. Maybe you'll start working on arranging those origami cranes, still piled in the bottom of the vocal booth, waiting...

You managed to stand there, alone, behind your keyboard, and pour your soul out for the world, every word cutting you into smaller pieces, Mike Shinoda confetti. Your heart laid bare, videoed and recorded, given away, and yet you're still here, still alive, still missing him. You'll always be missing him. You don't think it will ever go away, the questioning, the constant desire for answers. You wonder how long you'll have to wait to see him again.

For now, you smile at the crowd, then look up to the heavens, twisting Chester's bracelet on your wrist before bringing your hands together in silent prayer, striking his namaste pose before turning to leave. The last thing you see as you walk off the stage is a pink origami crane perched on the end of the walkway.