"And we're always slipping through the cracks; Then the movie's over, fade to black"

I stare at the screen, a blank Word document. I have writer’s block and can’t describe the thousands of emotions racing through me nor the recollections I see in my mind’s eye flashing like a movie memory sequence. I sit like this for minutes, which may as well be an eternity. I turn my attention to a computer game, social media, the TV, anything to not be here. Being here is like being there. The pain is real and somehow finalized, reminding me reality is real life. For weeks this is my routine.

The memories begin at sixteen years old, sitting in the family room of a friend whose house I had never been in until now. We, plus one of my two best friends, sit here casually on different chairs absorbing his words and passion for music. We listen to a classic, possibly his best-known song. Loudly. It’s my first introduction to him.

The music strikes me. His fervor releases something within me and I soon own two of his albums on compact disc. I listen to him religiously, fascinated by his energy, obsessed with his normalness. I memorize the lyrics. I am a fan. My best friend is too. That’s another thing we have in common.

We hear he has a tour planned and will stop in our capital city. I want to be in line when tickets go on sale. I make plans with her mother to do exactly that. She picks me up in her station wagon in the wee hours of a Saturday morning. We are in the lobby of a box clothing store where Ticketmaster has a small window. We sit on the floor starting a line. She’s first, I’m second. We talk for hours waiting for the lights to turn on and window to open. When it does, we buy tickets just off the floor, maybe halfway back from the stage. She buys four tickets for her family. I buy three – one for our other best friend, my sister, and me.

The show is amazing. We dance. We sing. We laugh.

By senior year, I choose the first line of a relatively new song as my yearbook quote: “You can't run away forever; But there's nothing wrong with getting a good headstart,” not knowing how true the lyrics would speak to my choices after college.

Those CDs are now in my car. As I listen to them, I’m instantly teleported back nearly thirty years to singing, dancing, quoting, and laughing.

That stopped the day after my birthday this year. News broke. He died. Complications of COVID-19.

My memories rush back, quickly followed by silence. Revving of motorbikes as heard in the opening frames of “I’d do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” occupy my mind and tears that refuse to fall leave me feeling hollow.

It’s too soon.

Not him too.

She’s gone. Not him. Not now. One must stay. But both have left? I can't comprehend whether it's a question or statement. I can’t cry but I cannot listen and remember. It’s too much.

Instead of happiness, my mind travels there. To the darkest day - the one in which she left. Those memories return. That anguish dominates me. I relive that. I remember calling her, emailing, and waiting for news. Anything. I remember the confirmation and asking her mom over the phone what I can do. The answer is nothing, just wait. I recall the moment when her mom asks me to come home and write her eulogy. I reminisce sitting on an airplane still unable to write, only thinking of how many pieces of yellow-lined paper I’ve crumbled and tossed over my shoulder, powerless to find the right thoughts. I recall the first few years after her death, the incessant bawling, the questions, and emptiness. The weight of her absence.

I start hearing his most heart-breaking songs play in my head. I don’t want that.

I try to listen to his melodies, looking for my favorite tunes. Our songs. I want to remember us happy. The opening notes introduce nausea. Tears start to finally surface. I turn it off.

I’m not there yet.

I don't know how to get past this and I can't talk to anyone. They won't understand.

Out of nothingness, a thought randomly occurs to me. He died after my birthday. The day after. Just one day after. Not on my birthday. Maybe she had something to do with that. Yes, it’s selfish, I know. It’s silly, too. But I don’t feel so insignificant anymore.