Monday, June 30, 2014

I/We Miss You.

 *it's funny- I used to hate this photo because I thought I looked crazy (I do, haha), but now it's one of my favorites.
This was taken in 2005 at Denny's I think, after a show.

I told myself I wasn't going to write about this today. I had another post ready to go, but when I got up this morning and logged in to publish comments I realized that I hadn't scheduled it at all, so I took it as a sign that maybe I should write about what I wanted to write about in the first place.

So here we are.

Time goes quickly when you're looking back at it. When I think of all the times we had with you it's a blur, but if I close my eyes and lie very still, little bits and pieces come bobbing to the surface, slipping back under again if I'm not quick enough to reach out and grab them. Moving into that old apartment on Cortez Street, you and Hank lugging all of those boxes up that tiny flight of stairs. A million nights at shows, sitting at the merch table with you, inside jokes and the endless stream of girls coming up to talk to you, photos of funny faces and that hand under your chin pose you'd always, always do. There are more layers of memory beyond the first things that come to mind- your Mom, the lunches we would have and the stories she would tell me about you and Hank and the guys being young and crazy. Almost eight years ago now- you, Juliann, Hank and me moving into the house on Marina Street- I can still remember the way our excited voices echoed in that big living room before we brought our stuff inside. That summer in particular is easier to remember than most. It's a skateboard going over the cracks in the pavement, you and Juliann laughing sitting out there on that front porch, the smell of dinner cooking in that big kitchen, such a treat after the painfully small one in that first place we all lived.

Hank hurts so badly. I can't imagine losing my best friend. You both got to grow up together, tour the country together, play shows together. You lived together, both got married, both became fathers. In the way friendships ebb and flow as time goes on, you two always found your way back to each other.

So last night when we all got together and shared stories, favorite songs playing over videos of you skateboarding, it hurt so badly because I know you would have loved that. You would have loved reminiscing over the silly, funny times in your life- and it made me sad to think that we don't honor the people we love more while they're alive.

And now I'm sitting here listening to one of your old bands and it's surreal to hear your voice after not hearing it for a year, and to be able to remember that one footed hop you'd do across the stage, bandana on your head, mic in your hand. I'm looking at photos from Henry's birthday parties, from the places we've lived, from after-show meals at Denny's or Waffle House or a random diner in New York. I'm thinking about J. and your four babies, and I can't imagine how they feel. But I know if I learned anything from you, it's that this is it, you know? You were well aware that we get one go-round, and you lived your life as such. So I'll think of that when I feel sad like this, and smile to myself, knowing that if you were here you'd be teasing me saying "Dino, get it together," laughing, eyes sparkling in that very Andrew way they would, reminding me that like you really did believe, there really is no time to waste.

Andrew and baby Henry, Hank and Dustin.