I wrote a short entry. It was– stupid. It was about my fingers hurting from rock climbing, and about my family’s outing; our happy little night together, bringing Subway home for dinner, singing ‘Jack and Diane’ in the car. My parents are in town. Chris and Michelle are here. It was a full house.

I wrote this stupid little entry because I said I’d write something, and as an afterthought, I checked my email. The kids had gone to bed. We were watching ‘Mr. Woodcock’.

My dear friend Amy is dead.

I’m shaking. I can’t stop shaking. I never imagined myself writing those words: they seem surreal, typed there, a punchline to a bizarre joke. I feel like I can’t breathe. I had no idea. She hadn’t updated her site since September. I still checked frequently. I had her on my RSS feed. I kept waiting for an update. I was going to write her– I thought this week, next week, SOON, I would write her and see how she was doing. She was due on Christmas with her first child. We’d traded emails over the entire pregnancy. I was going to visit her and bring her baby clothes. In the summer, when the weather got warm. Soon. I was going to see her soon.

She didn’t know if she ever wanted kids, and her daughter was a surprise. But when she found out she was pregnant, she doted on her unborn child. Amy was so full of optimism about parenting, about having a newborn around. She was so funny and kind and sweet. She had blossomed into this incredible person, and I couldn’t wait to hear trade stories about things our kids were doing.

Amy and I were best friends. We were old friends. She lived down the street from me, and we went to middle school together. We walked back and forth every day, talking about boys, about girls, about God, about sex, about politics. We went to high school together. We kept a notebook detailing every minute for the other person. We brought it to class, to parties, to detention, to bed; scrawling out secrets for the other to read. Amy called me on my bullshit, always. She stood up to bullies. She painted her nails dark blue and black and listened to all these new bands like Nirvana. She was different than me. She was so strong. Her father died when she was a teenager, and she somehow dealt with that. Both my childhood best friends lost their fathers young, and they soldiered on. She was a soldier.

WAS. How do you do that– switch to the past tense?

I can’t stop writing. I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry and I won’t stop. I can’t stop shaking I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Inhale.

Write write write.

I got a message from a mutual friend telling me that they had found me on Amy’s site after her passing. I reread the sentence ten times. I can’t get my head around it. Dead seems so final. It’s too complete. I can’t believe this is possible: I feel like Amy is sick, and I’m scared and worried and I’m going to fucking cry I won’t be able to stop. I feel like she is out there, sick, and I didn’t know, and I can’t help. She can’t be gone. She was 25 years old. We slept in the same bed at sleepovers. We wore each other’s clothes. I still have her shirt in my drawer: a purple shirt her father brought her from San Francisco. I sleep in it some nights.

God, this isn’t FUCKING FAIR.

THIS ISN’T FAIR GOD WHY DID YOU FUCKING MESS UP SO BAD. why would you do this? why would you take her? i went into the bathroom and sobbed my guts out. amy you are so much better than me. you are such a good person. i wish i could tell this to you now. i never met your husband. i may never meet your little girl. i saw a picture of her: she’s so beautiful. you did good. you did so good amy. i wish i knew the whole story. i heard that you sacrificed yourself for her. i heard that you chose to give your child life at the expense of your own. amy you are so brave. i want to believe i would do that too, that i would be as good as you but i don’t know. i’m so scared amy. you are so fucking incredible. i wish your daughter could know what an amazing mom she had. HAS. has. has. has. she was robbed. you were robbed. i hate this, i HATE THAT THIS HAPPENED TO YOU. i hate this. i can’t stop crying. i want to see you again amy. i wanted to see you again: as adults, to watch our kids play together and laugh about how young and crazy we used to be. i know you’d be a good mother. i know you’d love being a mother. i know things would have been good.

amy, i miss you. i miss you right now. i never know what to say when this happens. i never know what to say about it, because everything seems wrong. i can’t stop crying, and i can hear michelle weeping through the door. our house is grieving for your loss. i don’t want to go out there. i can’t. this is too private. i can’t breathe. i can’t breathe. i can’t talk to jason. i can’t say this. i can only write. the words won’t come out. i can only write this to you now amy. you were only 25. you had so much time left. there was so much to do. you had so much time.

i’ll see you someday, amy. i promise. i’ll find you. i’ll find you. i wish i had more words for you, amy, but you know. this isn’t enough. this doesn’t cover it. i still remember little things about you, amy. i know what your room smelled like during sleepovers. i know the color of your eyes. your teeth. your laugh. i remember your handwriting. i won’t forget amy. i won’t ever forget. you won’t go anywhere amy. don’t worry. you’ll be right here. you know.