For The Love Of Music and Writing For My Life

So I'm writing.  I'm writing and I'm writing, and not worried about it making any sense until it all ends up fitting together.
Today I sat down at the computer and my thoughts returned to the dream I had last night.  I dreamed of my father, a rare occurrence.  I'd have to say it was inevitable because I've been thinking about him so much lately, especially since I've revisited Meat Loaf's Bat Out Of Hell.  Anyone who knows my immediate family knows that my parents passed on a mind-boggling love of music to my brother and me.
It's because of them that Hammie and I will call each other at random times to say, "Hey have you heard of...?"  Or "You gotta listen to this song."  I truly believe that the love of music was one of the things that kept our parents together for so long.  I mean, if it weren't for The Beatles, I wouldn't be here - when my father picked my mother up for their first date, he noticed her record collection and they stayed in all night talking and listening to music.  They were married maybe a year later, and I was the result of the honeymoon in Bermuda.
When my brother turned 11, my parents gave him a Fender Stratocaster that he still plays.  When I was 8, they encouraged me to pick up an instrument and it was then that I started playing the violin.  Not to mention being taught to use the voices we were blessed with - both my brother and I were chorus members throughout our entire school careers, with a couple rounds of All State Choir stints thrown in.  People still talk about my brother, my father and me doing trios in church.
Hammie now plays with Pop's band and it's like my father is standing there holding that Gibson guitar.  I haven't touched the violin since high school, but it still sits in my room and once I scrape together the money to get it back up to par - violins are finicky instruments, susceptible to the elements and neglect - I will make it sing again.
So I sat down to write today and I was going to start with the dream.  But it hit me - I am not ready to write about my father yet.  I don't think I even addressed his death in my personal journal; if I did it was more of a statement and I stopped writing for a while.  No one wants to relive the tragedy of losing a parent so sudden and unexpectedly.  One day I will be strong enough, but I feel like it needs to be soon.  It's not a matter of enough time passing (it's been about two and a half years,) but a matter of whether or not my head and my heart are ready.
Writing about my father will be like opening a giant can of worms.  You can't focus on the good things alone when writing for your life.  This can sits in front of me, waiting, beckoning for me to open it.  It's only a matter of time.