When I Die

Amy's Birthday

Amy's birthday today and the song that's playing in my head goes: "It's your face I'm looking for on every street."

I don't know how one talks about someone who isn't there anymore, much less what he talks about when it's a dead one's birthday.

It feels more than a bit odd, for though I have thought of her birthday every year since she went, I didn't know (and didn't hope. God no) she wasn't alive any more.

Life's strange. Memory's stranger. I know exactly what happened on her birthday when she was here with me. I remember when I'd got up in the morning, I remember brushing twice so I wouldn't smell like a Jurassic Park reject, I remember shaving (that was the seventh time I actually shaved, I remember that too), I remember walking to her house and giving her what I think is a very mushy birthday present: a stuffed animal (when I went to the Archie's gift shop and picked that stuffed monkey up, it felt so damn idiotic. More sissy than anything else I'd ever done) and a custom compilation of songs I'd spent nine hours getting right (no computers/mp3 back then) and a small birthday card which opened up to a pop-up Jester saying, "In case you didn't know, it's your Birthday!" and below it a sucky handwritten note I'd best not repeat here.

I remember what she'd worn that day (a skirt that showed off her legs and a T-shirt that looked like it was molded over her body. Yeah, that girl drove me batshit, all right), and remember wishing she'd let her hair loose (she did in the evening, and, oh my gosh, that was something), I remember the kohl below her eyes, I remember talking with her for about an hour before the rest of the goons arrived and gave her their respective presents.

What I don't remember is what I'd worn that day.

What I don't remember is how many songs I'd sung.

What I do remember is thinking about how odd was it that in my brotherhood, nobody except me knew how to play any musical instrument.

And I remember her.

I remember her saying, "Thank you;" her cheeks a soft shade of red, smiling her beautiful dreamy smile.

I probably could remember everything that was said that day, word for word.

Above all, though, I remember her voice.

I can hear it even now if I want to. In my head.

She had the kind of voice that made you want to keep on hearing whatever she had to say. Like an angel strumming a harp.

All of this came a few days before the farewell party, I think. Although my sense of chronology is worse than a snake's eyesight.

I remember walking back with her to her house. Sonya was there too, that day, she wasn't there lots that year, but she was there that day.

After Sonya went into her lane, for a few blocks or so, it was just me and Amy.

We talked about the compilation. "George Michael's song's got a smooth sax at the end," I said.

"The first time I heard you say that word, I thought you were saying 'sex'," she said. Laughed.

I remember us standing a few paces away from her door.

Just looking at her as the shadows enhanced her beauty, making it almost unbearable to watch any more. I felt like God would take my eyes away for looking at her beauty.

I remember thinking, It'd be swell if I had the guts to lean forward and kiss her cheek. Like she'd kissed mine.

I didn't have the guts and I didn't kiss her. Hindsight is a terrible thing.

What I did was touch her cheek. Like touching your palm on a calm lake's surface.

And she touched mine. Felt like somenoe was brushing me with a peacock's feather.

That I do remember.

"Thanks for today, KC," she said.

I couldn't think of anything (I never do), so I simply said, "Happy birthday," again.

"Had a good day, real good." Smiled her dreamsmile.

It was impossible to resist that smile, let me tell you. If you saw her smile, you had to smile back. At least, I had to.

So I smiled.

There was a mind-movie running in my cranium right then: me leaning forward and kissing her mouth. She kissing back. Progression, progression, progression, arms in arms, hands touching the back of each other's neck, hands touching a lot of other places, cut to golden sunset, dissolve to black with caption "And they lived happily till they died".

What happened was we said our goodnights and she went to her house and got in and before she closed the door, gave me a slow wave.

I stood there for a while after her door closed, possibly not even aware of everything around me.

That mind-movie was repeating itself inside my mental projector.

I walked home that day thinking that if we'd waited any longer I would have done what the mind-movie suggested. Consequences be damned.

I walked home that day half-asleep, I think.

I was thinking about a lot of good things. Lots of them.

And Amy.

I slept that night thinking of her. Watching that mind-movie in slomo. From every angle possible.

Somewhere along the way that simple train of thought turned to a somewhat steamy one, but I don't remember much about that. Good things are best remembered incomplete, anyway. 'Cause too much goodness can kill you.

And I remember feeling a whole lot of things (including everything an adolescent guy's supposed to), but I also remember thinking, feeling and knowing one thing more clearly than any other:

I loved Amy. I really did. Most of you would think it's just a fucking teenage state of mind. But it's not. I know it. And I won't try to convince you to change your opinion.

I loved her with all my heart.

Might sound like a perfectly childish romantic line, but I could imagine us growing old together. Laugh if you want. I don't care.

She was my equal in just about every way.

She was everything I'd ever want in a person.

Sharp, she was, my Amy. She talked the kind of sense that'd shock you with its core logic and simplicity. I've met a heck of a lot of shitheads in my life. And all they really do is make me almost certain that Amy was above us. She was a goddess, okay? Someone you could only worship. Heck, the way she cussed sounded like music to my ears. And let me tell you, my ears are a musician's, and even blind love can't make 'em lie. Her voice had me hooked. You know, there's a saying in India that when you die, you hear your mother's voice. You hear it the way you did when you were an infant. I'm sure that when I die it's Amy's voice that'll engulf me into the black infinity of eternal rest.

She always spoke her mind like me. She never took any shit from anyone.

And could she make you laugh? You better believe it. She didn't joke often (well, maybe that's the wrong thing to say. Let's restate it: she only cracked one or two jokes a day), but when she did, it was likely to get us giggling like little kids till I actually felt I'd actually lose control of my body and piss in my pants.

And when she laughed. Oh, man, try as I might, I don't think I can ever describe the way her mouth curved. The way her eyes went all watery. The way she first cupped her mouth with a hand and then burst out with the widlest, sweetest giggles you could ever hear. When she laughed I felt alive. Felt like life was great.

Guess I'm a love-sick fool. But it was there. Everything she did was great. And, oh, can you believe her smile could kill? You better. The way her lips curled, those dimples, you wouldn't believe it. You could lose yourself in that smile, you could see infinity in that smile. Made you feel like kissing those lips and keep on kissing them till your jaw dropped off.

I don't know if you'll believe me if I say that I don't look at girls the way most guys do (eg of typical male banter: 'lookit those goddamn tits! Man, God musta been really horny when he made that piece-a-work.' (sic)), but its true. And the real thing is I don't even know if that is a good thing or a bad one.

But that girl turned all my dials way up. Amy did. Absolutely.

Watching the way she walked, the way every movement was amplified, the almost tempting sway of her body when she danced, her hands--when she touched me it felt like I'd melt away.

The way small beads of sweat appeared above her lips.

Looking at her face was like looking at a perfect eclipse.

And when she let her hair loose... it looked fiery black and changed colors with the sun and made such a sharp contrast with her fair, clear, sparkling face... it was like a brilliant dab of moonlight in the dark, night lake.

That day when she traced a finger over the lines on my palm. I don't think I've ever sensed anything better in my life yet. Never.

Shit, all my circuits went on overload with that girl. Looking at her was like appreciating real beauty. And as much as I like to say I don't care about physical beauty... that girl, oh, God, she was divine.

The gentle curves of her body... watching her walk, or even stand, wearing her white T-shirt and red checked skirt, with a notebook held in the curve of her waist, her other hand waving at me as she walked, was tantalizing. Watching her cross her legs when she sat, the smooth, creamy firmness of her skin, the way she sometimes leaned on a table with her hands folded below the swell of her breasts, the way she looked over her shoulder with her brow rasied... it was extremely sexy. And somehow, I think, it was above that. It was graceful.

And underlying every other emotion and attraction and.... lust? Yes, lust... I ever felt for her was the kind of undying respect I never thought I'd feel for another human being. I never have.

Even back then, I knew that if I ever did kiss and hold (and do a lot more than kissing and holding if she wanted to) Amy ("Not in your wildest dreams, studboy," was usually the thought that followed this one immediately. "Not in your wildest dreams. Ogres and princesses can fall in love, yes, but only in movies and stories."), below all the passion and ecstacy and joy would be a strong undecurrent of completion. Of unity. That whatever happened was meant to be. That it couldn't be any other way.

I wanted her, if you can dig that.

Part of that want was very sexual, yes, but most of it was the kind of want you feel when you're hungry or thirsty. A basic necessity.

It boredered on obsessive madness, I think. But then, real love is mad anyway.

Maybe it's because she's my first love, it was our first love (her diary tells me that), maybe it's because of all that teenage bullshit we all experience, but I don't really think that's how it is. There was a fair amount of magic involved. It was there every time we talked. It was there every time she looked at me and I looked at her, and how I felt glad that she was here with me and how every moment seemed blessed and life seemed... beautiful. It was there every time we held hands. It was there on those walks on the beach. It was there every time we talked on the phone. It would've been there when we kissed. Somehow I know this. It would've been there every time we kissed. It would've been there when we lay together (and I do believe it would've felt like the most natural thing in the world when we did make love. And I know that I'd have done everything I could to make it divine for both of us), in each other's arms. It would've been there every time we lay together.

Jesus, that farewell day, when I felt her fingers behind my neck, I almost softened into jelly and dissolved. I really did. And it felt so simple and so right when I curved a hand around the small of her back... very, very aware of her warmth through the fabric. Feeling her breathing in and out. Watching those sweat-beads pop out above her lips (made me want to lick 'em like licking the cherry at the top of the cake before you ate it. Really). Smelling her amazing perfume... and below that, the faint, rich fragrance of her silky hair.

What I remember most vividly about that dance was that when we were grooving to that lazy tempo, I wasn't thinking about the future. I didn't care about what came next. All I remember thinking was just how glad I was to hold her and breathe the same air she was. All I remember looking at was the infinite serenity of her eyes and the red softness of her lips. All I remember sensing was that my hand on her back was burning, and that if not for the fabric, it really would burn away. All I remember feeling was an insane, majestic, elegant, ecstatic, overflowing love.

What I'm trying to say is that she had me high every time I was with her. But not even once was it just about sex. Not once. It was equal parts admiration and love and lust, I think. Yeah, I think that's how it was.

Our love was pure. Don't believe it if you don't want to. I don't really give a damn if you don't. I believe what I believe.

And I believe I love her.

They say that love and lust are two completely seperate emotions, but I don't think that's right.

Somehow, it's both.

When all you want to do is hold someone and be close to her. When all you do is count the hours till you can be with her again. When all you think of is the way she looks and the way she talks and how you'd sacrifice a thousand lifetimes to see her happy and kiss her mouth... that's what real love's all about.

When she went, I lost it. I really did. If you'd met me back then, you'd have seen a wreck.

I was heartbroken, you see. And it wasn't anybody's fault. I sometimes wish it was.

I didn't get over it. I don't honestly think I ever can.

Our love didn't blossom into what it could've been.

And lets be realists here, maybe it wouldn't have blossomed even if she'd stayed. Hey, life's a bitch who can kill and eat your little one when you aren't looking, after all.

But somehow--and here I think I really am sounding mushy--I think we'd have made it through.

It felt like destiny.

I do know now that my destiny's got different plans for me... and I don't mind most of it, but I hate the motherfucker for what happened to Amy. I hate Destiny for taking Amy away... not just from me, but from all those who loved her. I hate Destiny. Really do.

After I could at least start to bear it and crept back into the wide, bright world, I never felt the same for anyone. Never did.

Heck, look at me, I sound like a forty year old bloke who's been there and done it all and is now vowing sainthood or something.

I've also veered way off topic and talked about a few things I never should've. Amy and her love's best kept in my heart, I think, locked away. That's the only place where it can stay pure.

I read the entry over, and you know what? Talking about Amy seems to diminish her. Her and the love I feel for her.

I think that the things closest to your heart are almost impossible to talk about. And that talking about them lessens them. Makes them less full and resonant than how they sound like in your mind.

I miss her, you see. I know it's a bad thing to think about, I know there's no good in it, but I miss her.

I know staying buried in your past is a fucker of a way to live your life... but I can't help it.

Not today.

No sir.

You know, I've missed out on a lot of things in my life.

I missed out on everything every other guy has by right.

But mostly, the one thing that I mourn missing out on was that farewell party kiss.

I mourn missing out on it.

Because though I know that it's certainly a thought that has no percentage in it, I'm somehow sure of it that that kiss would've changed things. Don't know how.

Because the one thing I regret more than anything else is turning away and hearing what Ronnie had to say instead of ignoring her and uniting my lips with Amy's and declaring an affirmation and asking a question.

Because, if things had to end the way they did, that kiss was worth it.

If she had to die and I had to die my own heartbroken deaths, then those Gods above owed us that much.

---Lover.

PS: I've talked about some of the things in this entry with one person here at W.com before. Parts of this entry are also present in an email I sent that person. I'd like to tell him/her that the reason I've repeated some of those words here is that I couldn't say it in a way any better than I said it in that mail. 'Cause I don't know how to say it in any other way. A broken heart's like a broken-record: single tracked and repetitive.

PPS: To someone who knows who he is: Life is not about sex and partying, bud. Life's about wading through shit and trying to find those patches that are less brown and less stinkier than the others. Those relatively clean patches are what life's worth. The rest of the shit is there to remind us to strive for those clean patches. If you think that because I haven't had sex yet I'm in any way less of a man than your non-virgin highness, then you, quite simply put, don't know nuthing 'bout nuthing. I want to say a few more things but I don't think they'll make any difference 'cause you'll take it as one stupid loser's babbling. Which, suffice to say, is what I am.

PPPS: Love you, Amy. Always will. Like some old bastard said, you made my life majestic. I wish I could show you everything I can, everything I wanted to. I wish we had that chance.

PPPPS: Time has no conscience.