Changing the calendar over to 2019, I realized this year will mark five years since Amir's death. Five fucking years of a deep heartache that never lets up and never will. As one friend puts it, grief gets "softer" but not easier. That will never change.
A year or so ago, Amir's girlfriend Joleen was kind enough to send me his iPod. Amir had owned an iPhone, but he preferred the old click-wheel iPod for cataloging his music. Once I could procure an old 30-pin USB cable to charge it, I eagerly scrolled through his music library, nodding familiarly at most of the artists, but surprised by some others and, subsequently, crestfallen that I wasn't aware he liked these particular artists because (a) I like them, too, and we could have discussed their merits; or (b) I'd never heard of them and wish he could have told me more about them; or (c) I wish he could have explained to me why certain songs were meaningful to him. Now I'll never know and that fucking sucks, to put it rather ineloquently.
Eventually, I turned over Amir's iPod to Yael so that she could pull his music and add it to her own. Soon after, she and I got to discussing Amir's music library--the oddities, the surprises, the memories. Nearly every song prompts some emotional response, be it nostalgia, sadness, amusement or a momentary tick of joy. We talked about his love for Queen and pondered what his reaction might have been to the film Bohemian Rhapsody. Yael reminded me how Amir pulled us into his room to spin A Night at the Opera, demanding our specific attention to this extraordinary song that blew his little-kid mind. (These days, I dread hearing it, partly because it is so overplayed, but also because I hear Amir's boyish voice singing "Gal-i-leeeoo!" and it just eviscerates me.)
Years ago, during a time when Amir had been going through a breakup, he and I talked nearly every day, sometimes very late into the night, until I physically could not stay awake any longer (at which time Jason often took over as his counselor in those post-midnight hours while I attempted sleep.)
During one late-night call, Amir and I were discussing the distinct soul-crush of listening to certain songs during a sad time. As Amir noted, putting music on "shuffle" mode during a time of heartbreak could be likened to playing Russian roulette. Exactly, I'd responded. We singled out our revered Elliott Smith, Lou Barlow and Jeff Tweedy as embodiments of songwriters who know precisely which heartstrings to tug until they howled. (I'm looking at you, Barlow - Amir and I concurred that "Soul and Fire" is a 4-minute machete to the chest.)
Four years after Amir's death, listening to music on shuffle mode still elicits an unending range of emotional reactions. (Even tedium like "Dust in the Wind" [not found on Amir's iPod, lest you admonish his musical taste] affects me in a way that stirs contempt.) Every time one of his favorite artists releases new work or announces a tour (or dies), my heart sinks into my stomach. He won't be here to experience it. He won't be here to discuss it with. He is missing out on so much and, as long as I remain breathing, that horrific fact will never cease to devastate me.
