Composed: A Memoir

by Rosanne Cash

It’s not necessarily a bad thing, the untruth. Perhaps we don’t get the whole truth until we can stand it, and perhaps no one can ever really stand it in the density of this physical existence. I have settled quietly on the untruth, and even found its equanimity in my daily life. In the untruth of my parents, there is still so much for me, so many acts of service, so much real impulse for goodness, no matter how thwarted or strained. I see them clearly now, flawed as they are, self-centered and driven, with incomprehensible missions and agendas, diving headlong into parenthood when they were barely out of adolescence, unsuited to the task but devoted and hopeful, and, ultimately, not even on this earth for me as much as for themselves, which is the hardest thing for a child to accept. But how we remember is as important as what we remember.