Amy

“Don't let pain scare you away from visiting your memories”

These are the words of a dear friend’s father, on the 16th anniversary of her death. 

The Fedels have consistently amazed me in their grace and groundedness surrounding the drunk driving accident that injured them all and ultimately, resulted in Amy’s passing. 

People that know me today have come to describe me as…well, a lot of things. But some of my more off-putting characteristics include a certain reservation, a certain emotional wall. I know that one of my mother’s biggest struggles in being my mother during my adolescence was in navigating the non-communicative, secretive mask I wore. (Okay, maybe not all a “me” thing and in part, more of an “adolescent girl” thing.)

In a lot of the current challenges I face in life, I tend to get curious about my past. I subscribe to the belief that our past experiences can leave physical and energetic imprints in and on the body, which manifest in a whole host of maladies and “issue themes” - blockades that we constantly find ourselves running up against with seemingly little explanation as to why we can’t overcome them. 

My walls and privatude (a word now, k?) around certain aspects of my emotions are still present and so I am not as attuned to this inner map of my experiences (and I’m sure that part of those walls are because of experiences) but I am constantly becoming more aware of small lines traced from moments to past moments. Sometimes these walls can make me feel more stoic than I ideally see myself to be. But then I will stumble on these traced lines, like Amy’s. 

It never fails. Even if time has allowed more distance in thinking of her passing, every time her life is commemorated, it strikes a deep, deep chord within me. 

And that is when I am most grateful for Jean, Mike and Lisa’s energy. Her family must confront those striking moments of memorialization far more often than I do and yet, they do it with unabashed bravery and honor, vivacity and gentleness. It is inspiring, thought provoking and today, has brought about deep reflection. 

“Don’t let the pain scare you away from visiting your memories.” 

As my dad was getting ready to head out the door, I sort of quietly stated “today is the anniversary of Amy’s death.” He bent down, unable to hear me and I repeated a little louder. After having wiped the first round of tears from my eyes, they welled up again as he came to sit down beside me. 

He had been reminded of her the night before and had been thinking about memories of the two of us, which he shared with me. We talked about the family and the accident.This was the first time in 16 years that it had crossed my mind to look up the article from the day. To place a name to the man that took her life. To find out that he is probably out free by now. He shared more about his thoughts, memories of that summer and amy singing in my room. And then my dad shared his biggest worry at the time: “You seemed to just…swallow everything inside. We never really saw you process it, in any way we could recognize. 

It struck a chord with me, a truth. 

I remember the concept of Amy’s energy, I remember flashes of memories. But the details seem lost, because I never opened up to others. A wall went up then. 

As I sit here now, I find myself challenging that wall on many levels. 

The first memory I always recall is that of a last sleepover. She’d told me a ghost story and I’d become too frightened to sleep. I remember telling my parents I was scared and Amy feeling bad; that she would never be allowed to sleep over again.

I remember getting in a fight over the spelling of ‘Friend’ in our writing club. I was trying to write it in rainbow letters. I think she was the correct speller. 

I remember the vague concept of getting in fights at school, but more so, I remember when we would sit near each other later during story time and write heart-shaped apology letters back and forth to each other. 

I remember when she died, I addressed every journal entry to her and for a while, I talked to her angel every night, asking her to come back. 

But now, more feelings arrive. I now remember the feeling of trying to play her voice over in my head each day when it first happened, never wanting to forget what it sounded like. I can still barely hear it. 

I remember a vague concept of shyness at her memorial, when we were given small books with her name on it to write memories and I couldn’t even finish a page. 

And then this morning, when my dad shared his memory of us singing in my room, I now remember that also. We all loved her voice - knew she’d be a star. I feel like she was singing Grease that night. She knew far more musicals that I did. 

My dad also spoke of thoughts about who she may have been now, whether we’d still be friends. I believed we would, just from the energy I remember from her. He believed our writing would have been a big common denominator to keep us together. 

And as I sit here with that and her photos and stories that her family has shared over the years, I see my wall is formed around more than just memories. Some of those small lines begin to appear, in my resistance to my creativity, my resistance to writing, my resistance to the vibrant qualities that I know I posess, that she so readily expressed. What if that resistance is an imprint of my body and spirit mourning? 

Amy was an incredibly gifted girl. Even in my shortage of memories, her image exudes light and poignantly expresses all of the qualities of wisdom, creativity, vivaciousness and compassion that she embodied. 

For the first time, I imagine how her living could have inspired my living. I think I would be in a drastically different place right now, in many ways. That is powerful. 

But with an energy that powerful, there is no reason for it to not carry on, penetrate our lives even past her physical existence. 

I move forward today with a new sense of recognition of all of my deepest aspirations. Every small step in which I actualize those is healing my mourning; it is giving Amy life.