tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30486293501269711112024-02-20T13:18:28.028-05:00Remembering AmirApril 7, 1976 - November 22, 2014Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-85894737586364037172023-04-07T08:53:00.000-04:002023-04-07T08:54:35.100-04:00If We Love, We Grieve<div class="separator"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPqcH4v54XKegNFmhFbpwvpFrC1mnMgpsu-m5dHHrl-Px7BxhjLXPckYZnDBoq1DtZ8JfAAV_VRd2b9lqkyGZ_AgNyion3kcisYs9aZ785y5GjYHaVRBLWZWf1_RUI636k2N0KB2JANLooOrXgq1OnngR2BFO0F9M97_Pa-zrsQsa2lcJvkGdQfw/s554/Amir%20-%202003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="438" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPqcH4v54XKegNFmhFbpwvpFrC1mnMgpsu-m5dHHrl-Px7BxhjLXPckYZnDBoq1DtZ8JfAAV_VRd2b9lqkyGZ_AgNyion3kcisYs9aZ785y5GjYHaVRBLWZWf1_RUI636k2N0KB2JANLooOrXgq1OnngR2BFO0F9M97_Pa-zrsQsa2lcJvkGdQfw/w158-h200/Amir%20-%202003.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>My beautiful brother would be, should be, 47
years old today. I have not written here in two years, partly because it’s not
easy to find new ways to express my endless sadness at living without Amir all this
time. 99 months without him. How could I even attempt to describe the enormous
void in my life where my brother, my precious second sibling, should be? </span></div><div class="separator"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Amir's birthday is a day to celebrate his life, not his death, and to imagine who he would have been as he aged - a reality we have been sadly denied.</span></div><div class="separator"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">For over 8 years, I have struggled to put my feelings into words that would do justice to how deeply I miss him every
single day. So, as I’ve done countless times when my own words
fail me (an instance that is happening with more frequency as I inch ever
closer to my golden years), I will turn to the words of others that perfectly describe
my ongoing sorrow over my brother’s absence and what I've learned and continue to learn from it:</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;">Dr. Edith Eger: </span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;"><i><b>“We grieve over not what happened but what
didn’t happen.”</b></i></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">This is what I think of as “the grief
double-whammy”: it’s our own grief over losing them and missing them, plus the
grief we feel for them and for everything they are missing out on. This is
something I did not understand in the slightest until I experienced profound
loss. And I never could have imagined that it gets more pronounced with the
passing of time.</span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif">Marc
Maron</span></b><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
(talking with Stanley Tucci):</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i>“It's
interesting that you bring up absence, because that's what becomes really hard
to understand, is that somebody was here. And now you live with their absence
for the rest of your life. And it's almost active and it's always there – that
absence. You grieve, you move through things, your heart heals, your mind
heals, maybe you move on, but that absence is so profound because all
possibilities are gone.”</i></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">When I heard Marc Maron say "all possibilities are gone" during this interview on his podcast, I absolutely felt it in my chest. It is one of the heaviest parts of grief to grapple with: there are no possibilities for Amir to become what he wanted to be, no possibilities for him to be part of our lives, no possibilities for us to spend time with him again.</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;">Nick Cave:</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;"><i>“It seems to me that if we love, we grieve.
That's the deal. That's the pact. Grief and love are forever intertwined. Grief
is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love and, like love, grief is
non-negotiable. There is a vastness to grief that overwhelms our minuscule
selves. We are tiny, trembling clusters of atoms subsumed within grief's
awesome presence. It occupies the core of our being and extends through our
fingers to the limits of the universe. Within that whirling gyre, all manner of
madnesses exist; ghosts and spirits and dream visitations, and everything else
that we, in our anguish, will into existence. These are precious gifts that are
as valid and as real as we need them to be. They are the spirit guides that
lead us out of the darkness.”</i></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-size: 9.0pt;">Michelle Obama</span></b><span face="Arial, sans-serif">:</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i>“It
hurts to live after someone has died. It just does. It can hurt to walk down a
hallway or open the fridge. It hurts to put on a pair of socks, to brush your
teeth. Food tastes like nothing. Colors go flat. Music hurts, and so do
memories. You look at something you'd otherwise find beautiful… and it only
somehow deepens the loss. Grief is so lonely this way.”</i></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Grief is so lonely, indeed. And surprisingly, it only deepens over time, as we get farther and farther away from the time he was here with us. The road ahead without him seems impossibly long and empty, but we push forward as best we can, missing him every step of the way and left to only imagine who he would be.</span></p><p></p>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-47117347593590432312021-04-07T07:56:00.000-04:002021-04-07T07:56:01.333-04:00Rotisserie<div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><div class="gmail_default"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHg7sJFVymFpFm6EhAuEeJLjogyzGT9WaXjlvOuDU0R6EnHzk7_AyqHHJ0b5DHe3yTGQZhv5FoYh3Ugb60t_3WEICsHJGfE3iHSc6ONdSZv2acBSm6oTGkpWrPRv0BlitGNlxWK1eQ/s322/Postcard+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="220" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHg7sJFVymFpFm6EhAuEeJLjogyzGT9WaXjlvOuDU0R6EnHzk7_AyqHHJ0b5DHe3yTGQZhv5FoYh3Ugb60t_3WEICsHJGfE3iHSc6ONdSZv2acBSm6oTGkpWrPRv0BlitGNlxWK1eQ/w137-h200/Postcard+2.jpg" width="137" /></a></div><span>Our beautiful Amir should have reached age 45 today. I'm still in disbelief as I type that sentence. He will always be 38. Losing Amir and living without him never gets easier, the hole in our hearts never gets smaller and the enormous void in our family never goes away. Who would he be at 45? Would he be happier? Healthier? Thriving? Surviving? Where would he be? His absence is felt every single day of our lives, in countless, unimaginable, indescribable ways.</span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span><br /></span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span>When I think of all the visits and conversations we'd have had and the memories we'd have made over these past 6 years, I am physically shaken by the thought of how much we have missed. This is torture. I don't advise anyone deeply grieving to explore those thoughts. It hurts too much.</span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span><br /></span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span>I read this quote in the <i>NY Times</i> a few months ago, about a man who lost his wife and children in a plane crash in the '70s: "His life was utterly bifurcated by the accident. There was Act I and Act II."</span></div><div class="gmail_default"><br /></div><div class="gmail_default"><span>I know this sad truth so well. The profoundly different second act of our lives began on that horrific Saturday, November 22, 2014. The first act is a sublime, vivid, essential catalog of memories. But there are no more memories to be made with Amir. That heartbreaking fact will never be acceptable or understandable.</span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span><br /></span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span>That said, I am ever grateful to have those vivid memories. Here's one that makes me smile often: Amir was 6 or 7, we were in a restaurant with our parents and we were studying our menus when Amir declared he wanted the "RAW-di-serry" chicken. I doubt he'd ever seen the word "rotisserie" nor did he know what it meant, but he was eager to show off his advanced reading skills and his grasp of multi-syllable words. To this day, whenever I see the word "rotisserie," I can only hear it in my mind as "RAW-di-serry" -- the result of a proud attempt by a whip-smart kid to impress his family with his growing vocabulary.</span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span><br /></span></div><div class="gmail_default"><span>Amir, we miss you more than any words could express. Friends, please conjure your own memories of Amir today - remember a funny moment, something brilliant he wrote or said, the warmth of his smile, his silliness, his wit, his unmatched Amir-ness. There is no one on this earth like him, nor will there ever be.</span></div></span></div>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-55406870760369402422020-12-25T11:21:00.001-05:002020-12-26T16:26:54.200-05:00Incomplete<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently, a fellow bereaved sibling told our group that he felt he'd lost the "one true witness" to his childhood. This statement has stayed with me, lingering in my brain for weeks. Yes, I still have my sister and we share infinite memories of childhood. But Amir was a vital witness, a third keeper of our childhood memories. Without him, so many memories are fuzzier, so many incidents and events are lost to our minds. We will forever be lacking his voice speaking truth to the lives we've lived. Losing a sibling closes the window to so many memories and certainties. Yael and I have lost a witness.</span></div><p></p><p></p><p><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpaxQnIXIo0LObVnmuLTNiDOvq6kpVlH_FnKmNUU9WqmtCCwtatdF0ikC_0Wl6HW4tB_Kp5G8cq3NHeR7lXOz8gR9ZSFMdj2GQNaBZnd6w8sU-YARpm35Fgw22ScWtOlHtWLpthl8q/s320/Oct.+1979.jpg" width="320" /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">On that note, I was recently thinking about the line "You complete me" from the movie <i>Jerry Maguire</i>. Even seeing it (with Yael) in our 20s, I found that line ridiculous, thinking even then that no partner or lover would ever make me "complete." My <i>siblings</i> completed me. I believed that from a young age. Much as I adored my late husband Jason and the huge role he played in making my life fuller, he did not make me "complete."</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpaxQnIXIo0LObVnmuLTNiDOvq6kpVlH_FnKmNUU9WqmtCCwtatdF0ikC_0Wl6HW4tB_Kp5G8cq3NHeR7lXOz8gR9ZSFMdj2GQNaBZnd6w8sU-YARpm35Fgw22ScWtOlHtWLpthl8q/s448/Oct.+1979.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My siblings made me complete. And, without both of them, I am simply... incomplete. Like a jigsaw puzzle missing a piece. I am incomplete and I will be until my last day.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That leads me to a podcast I relate to hugely: <i><a href="https://www.lemonadamedia.com/show/last-day/" target="_blank">Last Day</a></i>, created by <a href="https://www.papercitymag.com/arts/stephanie-wittels-wachs-death-brother-harry-wittels-lemonada-media-pocast-network/" target="_blank">Stephanie Wittels Wachs</a>, who lost her beloved younger brother and only sibling. Her wonderful podcast delves deeply into the painful subjects of addiction, mental illness and suicide. In a recent episode, she said of herself and her parents, "We used to measure time in weeks and months and years. Now, there were two categories: before he died and after. And everything that came before suddenly felt futile."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This resonates with me every single day of my life since November 22, 2014. The before and after is stark, drastic and profound. I look at photos of Yael and my parents and I from before Amir died and we look like different people, people untouched by the immeasurable pain and relentless grief that would mark the rest of our lives after that unimaginable November day six years ago. I miss those people and those full lives more than I can possibly express.</span></p>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-92133534641352420802020-04-07T10:12:00.001-04:002021-03-22T15:59:46.593-04:00April, Come She Will (featuring Weird Al!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My beautiful brother Amir should have turned 44 today. It is beyond belief how intensely I miss him every day. The month of April always feels heavy and sad because it holds this special date on which we no longer celebrate, but grieve what should have been. Of course, being in the middle of a pandemic only adds to the heaviness and adds a bonus layer of anxiety. And particularly at a time when so many families are bonding over shared time at home together.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">In all of this, I cannot count the number of times each day I desperately wish I could be sharing this surreal new normal with Amir: talking to him about all the strangeness and scariness of what's happening all around us and finding ways to laugh through our anxiety.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">When it comes to laughter, no one fostered it more significantly or continuously in my life than Amir did. A few weeks ago, one of my favorite podcasts, <i>Hit Parade</i>, did an entire episode about the brilliant Weird Al Yankovic. It shouldn't surprise anyone who's read this blog to learn that Amir loved Weird Al. He loved parody songs (especially smart ones like Al's) and he relished Al's videos, which were hugely popular on MTV throughout the '80s. He loved "Like a Surgeon" and "Jeopardy" and especially "Eat It." As a super-creative kid, Amir even enjoyed writing his own parodies, which got more off-color as he got older, including a hormonal-teen version of The Beatles' "When I'm 64" called... ready for this?... "Will You Be My Whore?"<b>*</b> The co-writer of this inglorious ditty shall remain nameless unless he chooses to come forward and proclaim ownership.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">Back to Weird Al. I've been hooked on <i>Hit Parade</i> and its host Chris Molanphy since the first episode I heard. It's likely I've written about this here before and likely will again, as I've yet to delve into the inspired episode on '80s New Wave. Molanphy is a musicologist bar none, though Amir could have proved a formidable challenger in the realm of music trivia. I know I've talked about our epic music trivia battles and wagers here more than once.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">This particular episode of <i>Hit Parade</i> also dove into the deliciously weird world of Dr. Demento, another of Amir's favorites in his younger days. When we were kids, Dr. Demento hosted a weekly syndicated radio show that we often listened to just hanging out in Amir's room playing games or, on a few occasions, as a family in the car. Amir loved "Fish Heads" and "Sister Mary Elephant" and that weird song about L.A. that included a nod to the LaBrea Tar Pits - who remembers this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">But my favorite memory is Amir, Yael and I giggling our asses off to "Boot to the Head" and using that phrase whenever we were irritated with one another (e.g., <i>"I'll give you a boot to the head if you don't let me use the bathroom!"</i>) or just teasingly (e.g., I specifically recall Amir once telling me, <i>"You deserve a boot to the head for that outfit."</i>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">Anyway, I'm not feeling particularly eloquent today, but I had to share my remembrances on a day that I should be spending with him physically and not only in my mind and heart. I celebrate him in spite of not being able to celebrate <i>with</i> him. Amir, we miss you so much. The holes in our hearts only grow larger each day we cannot be with you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>*</b>Sample lyric: "Will you still ball me? Will you still call me? Will you be my whore?"</i></span></div>
Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-26142931694569344082020-01-07T16:35:00.006-05:002021-03-22T16:00:02.868-04:00Good Times Come to Me Now<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2020. Unfuckingbelievable. Another year without my beautiful brother, a brand-new decade he will not see. This never, never, never gets easier.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While on my usual walk home the other day, a random Amir moment crept up on me when this most random of songs popped into my head out of fucking <i>nowhere</i>:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;"><span>This earworm launched me into an exceptionally clear flashback. The song </span><span>was inescapable, in near-constant radio rotation, in 1983, when 7-year-old Amir was the ideal age to go bananas for such infectious shit. He may have owned the 45" or maybe he recorded it on a cassette off the radio (as we both did frequently). Either way, he couldn't get enough of it. I can still hear his sweet, high-pitched voice singing it in his room, probably mangling the lyrics but belting it out with an enthusiasm and energy reserved for little kids.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;"><i>He fucking loved that silly song.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">Another thing Amir loved was making lists, a diversion he inherited from me, his list-loving sister. This past weekend, I was thumbing through one of his spiral-bound notebooks, in which he'd recorded sports stats, scoring for Boggle games with friends, random to-do lists, notes to self, etc. Among the pages, I noticed two lists in particular that made my heart sink. One was a playlist of songs, labeled at the top with his nickname for me - likely a playlist he'd wanted to burn to CD for me or otherwise share with me. We had discussed a few of the songs before, but the others were unknown to me and I've now sought them out to add to my library, as he had evidently thought I'd appreciate them. (He was right.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The other was a list of friends numbering about 10 or 11 and headed by my husband, Jason (who was Amir's friend long before they became brothers-in-law). Everyone was listed in a rather formal manner, by first and last name, including people who'd been his friends since childhood. They were separated into two groups. No family members made the list. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, I'm left to forever wonder... what the hell was this list? Amir was not one to send holiday cards or plan gatherings. Were they people he owed money to? People he wanted to get into touch with or re-establish contact with? People who'd borrowed his books or records and hadn't returned them? People who had been there for him in some meaningful way? People who he believed had wronged him somehow? And why two separate groupings?<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">We will never know. Never. Five years after Amir's death and I still cannot fucking accept the fact that I cannot call or email my brother with random questions. I can't call him to ask some silly bit of music trivia (he was better than Google, in many ways). I can't text him to tell him I just saw a guy on the subway who strangely resembled Bert from <i>Sesame Street</i>. I can't plan a visit with him or look forward to a family gathering with him at the table. The list is endless and it will never get shorter.</span></div>
Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-232302090644629972019-11-22T08:14:00.002-05:002021-03-22T15:58:59.087-04:00Five.<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUgRnNTfHRnLmwcDqlyDzfzSH_LGIAq3dtqAZjYcZlCMBEkLaIRF8AaSCNfMEPLDT05wWFVuSIGR0MpfboRBeI8cqtuXrZJZxGLJ3mB5m795v_UZKttzscgtrheYlDn4yXv0pz10wE/s1600/April+1993.jpg" style="clear: right; color: #073763; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="234" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUgRnNTfHRnLmwcDqlyDzfzSH_LGIAq3dtqAZjYcZlCMBEkLaIRF8AaSCNfMEPLDT05wWFVuSIGR0MpfboRBeI8cqtuXrZJZxGLJ3mB5m795v_UZKttzscgtrheYlDn4yXv0pz10wE/s200/April+1993.jpg" width="187" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Five years. Five long, lonely, incredibly painful years without my darling brother. It does not seem possible that grief has gripped us for this long. It feels like yesterday I heard his voice and his laugh, drank in his smile, delighted in his wit and humor, enjoyed new music he recommended. Tonight, I will be on a plane to Brazil, thoughts and memories of Amir keeping me company for those long hours across dark skies. </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">I wish so badly I could enjoy things fully and freely the way I once did, but it is still incredibly difficult to do so without him. </span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOSO1n1wGjGOfI9Rx9SJOo4aSxDNnu2K_S9IgrqPq85qQlCi0hH0skBJu6gEvNSlcO5InBS1jdpNCxjJbi7e_x_-jgpxvXn9ydctBCD9Tn8LQGK1eJKNw30fuNCzoC07RNy_p8pib/s1600/June+1981.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="305" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOSO1n1wGjGOfI9Rx9SJOo4aSxDNnu2K_S9IgrqPq85qQlCi0hH0skBJu6gEvNSlcO5InBS1jdpNCxjJbi7e_x_-jgpxvXn9ydctBCD9Tn8LQGK1eJKNw30fuNCzoC07RNy_p8pib/s200/June+1981.jpg" width="135" /></span></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My immediate family has not celebrated Thanksgiving since Amir's death and I don't know if we will again. I've made an effort to travel this week each year, often with Yael. In 2016, we celebrated Amir in Italy. Last year, we lit a candle in Prague. This year, we'll be together in Brazil. Traveling on such a painful anniversary is bittersweet and joyous and somewhat of a relief - it reminds me that I must continue to live and learn and explore new worlds and embark on adventures because Amir cannot. In many ways, I see travel and exploration as compulsory elements of my grief process.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Five unbearably long years without Amir. I continue to grieve for him every single day, but I am so grateful I have the freedom and opportunity to explore the world, a chance Amir never had in his short life. I love you and miss you tremendously every day, my darling brother.</span><br /></span>
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Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-87062618006444506792019-11-12T13:37:00.001-05:002021-03-22T15:58:45.967-04:00November Rain<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyU3hxqKnjFfmcbC9OICtmGtujLmaggCTFoMCoBkt0VPqzKidmX256ssB9CaH_XrPXq5X6RiuAW8uDiR2ksphXGPj9PG1sNnNZEXrEWEiExB6dlrMsGEdVqD-FQZfr9zFigCknDHT/s1600/June+2007.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="245" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyU3hxqKnjFfmcbC9OICtmGtujLmaggCTFoMCoBkt0VPqzKidmX256ssB9CaH_XrPXq5X6RiuAW8uDiR2ksphXGPj9PG1sNnNZEXrEWEiExB6dlrMsGEdVqD-FQZfr9zFigCknDHT/s320/June+2007.JPG" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With our Grandma Lida in 2007</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bob Geldof wrote a song proclaiming August is "a heavy month." True, Sir Bob, but November is </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">the</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <i>heaviest </i>month for me and my family. This month marks 5 years since our beloved Amir left us. I still have moments where the very fact that he is not here takes my breath away. I still do not believe it's possible that he is not with us, that the sun keeps rising, that our lives could possibly continue without my brother. How can they keep making </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Star Wars</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> movies when he's not here? How can his favorite artists continue making music? How can Yael and I continue to exist as two instead of three? How has this new reality gone on for FIVE effing years? How have we survived it?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">And yet, life goes on. That, I've learned, is one of the most painful elements of grief - the unending sorrow of being left behind to carry on when that's the last thing you want to do. I don't want to end my life but, more often that not, I resent and lament that I have to go on without him here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Grief continues to sneak up on me like a sly cat. Hearing a random song in the grocery or drug store, smelling a certain brand of cigarette or laundry detergent, stumbling across a meme that would have Amir giggling, reading a news story about something from our childhood... all can stop me cold in my tracks, aching with remembrance.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For example, there's been extensive media coverage lately about the fall of the Berlin Wall, 30 years ago. It was my first year of college and I remember talking to Amir about how fucking bizarre it was that David Hasselhoff was performing there. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then, this week, in NPR's reporting on the anniversary, they interviewed a man who was 6 years old when the wall fell. I listened to him recall how, after watching Hoff's concert, he and his little friends had presumed that Hasselhoff himself was responsible for the wall coming down! I got a chuckle out of the story, but Amir would have found it utterly hilarious. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The thought of Amir missing out on so many of life's little absurdities makes every memorable moment bittersweet. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBrwqg_6lNGJs4FjyQp96iJIpGIZ7afSwecf32U5PT-fFqhR0_rIGx52T2CSjuA1WTOXuR0dmGIWYsLZrR7Byscc0O3naFW_qpReYcXjBw7iwRw1LWSXHdjcNZnR9UW1AqoXhz-mx/s1600/Amir+%2526+Dad+-+1989.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="344" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaBrwqg_6lNGJs4FjyQp96iJIpGIZ7afSwecf32U5PT-fFqhR0_rIGx52T2CSjuA1WTOXuR0dmGIWYsLZrR7Byscc0O3naFW_qpReYcXjBw7iwRw1LWSXHdjcNZnR9UW1AqoXhz-mx/s200/Amir+%2526+Dad+-+1989.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">13-year-old Amir, with Dad</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm also hearing a lot about the 50th anniversary of <i>Sesame Street</i>, the show that was so integral to our childhood. Oh, how the coverage takes me back! Even the voices of the muppets remind me of Amir, particularly Bert. Why did preschool-age Amir seem to feel such an affinity for Bert? Probably his gentleness and wiseness. Even as a preschooler, Amir understood that, in many ways, Bert was the teacher and Ernie the student. Bert was the reasonable foil to Ernie's silliness, which, to be fair, Amir also got a kick out of. No one could ever say Amir wasn't silly - he thrived on it. I will never forget the sound of young Amir's high-pitched giggles at the antics of the muppets or Mel Brooks movies or so many other ridiculous things he loved. What would he make of the endless stream of absurdities the world is seeing now?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;">Fuck November.</span></div>
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Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-7625524218788917122019-07-10T14:30:00.002-04:002021-03-22T15:57:59.368-04:00"I'll never forget that phone call..."<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>25 years ago, I was living in L.A. when news broke of the brutal murders of O.J. Simpson's ex-wife Nicole and her friend Ron Goldman. In the weeks that followed, Ron and Nicole's families appeared in the media often, sharing their pain and their pleas for justice. I remember being particularly struck by Goldman's heartbroken father and by his sister, Kim, whose deep pain and anguish at losing her brother read so clearly on her face. She was my age and she was going through the worst pain I could have imagined in my life: losing a sibling. Two decades before I experienced her sorrow for myself, I truly ached for her.</span><br />
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<span>Like so many others, I followed O.J.'s trial closely and was shocked when the jury acquitted him in spite of formidable evidence against him. I could not imagine the unspeakable toll that verdict took on Ron and Nicole's families. How could they bear the anguish of, first, losing their loved ones in such a horrifically violent way and, then, seeing their loved ones' killer walk free?</span><br />
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<span>Years later, never having made sense of the injustice of the trial, my interest in the crime lies mostly in thinking about the families. So, when I learned that Kim Goldman had created a podcast about her family's loss, the trial and its aftermath, I was intrigued. Even before I'd lost my own brother, I'd felt a certain kinship with her because, any time she spoke of Ron, she described their incredible closeness and how few people could comprehend the immensity of her loss. Having enjoyed that same exceptional closeness with Amir, I could not fathom having him ripped from my life.</span><br />
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<span>Goldman devotes the first episode of her podcast (<i>Confronting: O.J. Simpson</i>) to remembering her brother and sharing stories about his life. She speaks to friends about Ron and what he meant to them. She does what I've attempted to do with this blog for the past 4+ years: she invites anyone listening to understand the person her brother was, how he lived his life and how deeply missed he was.</span><br />
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<span>It is extraordinarily difficult to convey how essential it is to me that people remember Amir. As the five-year mark of his death approaches, I may write less often, but it is no less important to me that he remains among us in our hearts and minds, in stories and writings and memories. I will continue to ask Amir's friends and family to share stories about him, be they short or long or seemingly inconsequential. I want to hear them ALL and put them on the record. I am persistently hungry for any tidbit about his life, any small glimpse into his mind, any delicious dollop of his humor. I treasure these morsels and hoard them in my memory as if they were the rarest of diamonds.</span><br />
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<i><span>*This post's title comes from the first episode of Kim's podcast, in which she and her father relate the details of Ron's death. Her father, Fred, begins his remembrance by saying, "I'll never forget that phone call." Sadly, Fred, I know exactly how you feel.</span></i></span>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-89735094882912239172019-04-02T12:38:00.004-04:002021-03-22T15:57:36.380-04:00Co-Conspirators<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><i>"My siblings were my first co-conspirators in the harvesting of my imagination."</i> - Patti Smith</span><br />
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<span>I fucking love this quote and I have for years. Not only were Amir and Yael my very <i>first</i> co-conspirators, they were the most present and persistent harvesters of my imagination and, for that, I'm eternally grateful. I could not have asked for two more exceptional co-conspirators, collaborators and friends.</span><br />
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<span>April has begun, a month always difficult and bittersweet. Amir would have, should have, turned 43 on April 7. How I wish I could clearly visualize my brother at age 43. He was 38 when he died, still partially a child in my mature eyes. Would he always have seemed like a child to me, as his older sister? He will always be 38 - a fact that I will never be capable of grasping fully. The brutal unfairness of his absence still blows my doors off every fucking day.</span><br />
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<span>And I don't believe in unfairness. I don't believe fairness is promised to anyone, anywhere. I have seen little reason to believe in karma. I don't believe people get what they deserve, be it good or bad. I believe that sometimes good, deserving people get dealt atrocious fucking blows in life while undeserving, garbage humans win at everything. Naturally, I don't believe it <i>should</i> be that way. That's the rational side of my brain speaking, the side that nearly always speaks the loudest.</span><br />
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<span>Last night, I dreamed that my sister Yael and I were engaged to marry the Princes Harry and William. (I could not possibly hazard a guess as to why.) In this curious dream, we were in Buckingham Palace, sporting obscenely gigantic diamond rings and discussing wedding details with the princes. Amir was there, laughing his face off and snarking hard at the notion that his goofy sisters were to become princesses. He suggested Yael was excited about her royal bethrothing, while I dreaded being in the spotlight, forced to live in some cold, sterile castle, raising joyless potential heirs.</span><br />
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<span>Even stranger is that Jason was there, asking me if I thought I'd be happier with Prince Harry than I was with him. (My response: "No fucking way.") Odder still is that Jason's family was there, including his deceased mother and stepfather, who congratulated me excitedly in spite of Jason's disapproval. Hours later, I am still furrowing my brow over what that shit was supposed to mean. No fever or drugs were involved in the conjuring of this bizarre scene.</span><br />
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<span>Any time Amir or Jason visits me in a dream, I awaken disoriented and frustrated. When they occupy my mind during those hours I'm awake, it's because I invite and implore them to step to the forefront and to be present during my daily doings and musings. I suppose I subconsciously invite them into my nocturnal mind as well, longing to interact with them, to hear their voices, to be near them again, if only for a few precious minutes.</span><br />
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<span>Amir would be turning 43 on Sunday. I will turn 48 this year, meaning I'll have had a full decade longer on this earth than my darling brother was granted. 10 years more of experiences, good and bad, of adventures and travels and laughter and hardship. 10 more years of life. How have I used those years to honor him? This question inspires and motivates so much of what I do and how I live. How am I honoring him? How am I honoring both of them?</span><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-61602228480725415472019-03-05T12:18:00.001-05:002021-03-22T15:57:24.237-04:00Amir's iPod<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>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.</span><br />
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<span>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.</span><br />
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<span>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 <i>Bohemian Rhapsody</i>. Yael reminded me how Amir pulled us into his room to spin <i>A Night at the Opera</i>, 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.)</span><br />
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<span>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.)</span><br />
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<span>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.)</span><br />
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<span>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" [<u>not</u> 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 <i>so much</i> and, as long as I remain breathing, that horrific fact will never cease to devastate me.</span></span>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-64687107561705035292018-11-25T16:03:00.003-05:002021-03-22T15:56:45.215-04:00Four Years, Part Deux<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Please read my last post (November 15) for context. Here are more excerpts of messages from Amir's coworkers as well as SAC members:</span><br />
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<i><span>“Amir and I had a shared sarcasm and his sharp wit and biting sense will
be greatly missed. We had joked together about what a (joyful) pain in the butt
some of the players here could be. I’ll miss his smile and his voice on the
phone. It breaks my heart knowing how much life he had left, but I know he had
a positive impact on many.”</span></i><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"Amir was a part of our community and now there is an empty spot that can't be filled. He never did convince me that baseball isn't the most boring sport ever, but he definitely tried his best."</i></span><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"I have known Amir for the past year. He was great. He was my go-to guy for information and always an ear to talk to. We often talked about office politics, but he always said nice things. He always kept such an even keel and it seemed he couldn't be bothered by anything."</i></span><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"I worked with Amir and had a chance to listen to some of his heartaches. He was really a sensitive man who loved and was loved much. I am glad I had the opportunity to meet him. He will be missed."</i></span><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"I will miss Amir's kindness and sense of calm. A very good man who always interacted with quiet respect and touched our lives. He will be fondly remembered."</i></span><br />
<i><span><br />"I always enjoyed chatting with Amir. He was always patient with my questions. He struck me as a sweet, gentle person and I will deeply miss seeing him every week. SAC was a brighter place with him here."</span></i><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"Amir was a good, lovely man. He always had a kind word."</i></span><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"Amir was a sweet, always-helpful man. It was always reassuring to see him."</i></span><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"Amir was a special person. I truly enjoyed his company and friendship. He was a good person."</i></span><br />
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<i>"Amir was the best man to ever work at the tennis desk. I've known him personally for over four years. Amir meant a lot to me; we watched many Blazers games together and we would talk for hours. Amir will always be close to me and I'll never forget the person he was."</i></span><br />
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<i>"Amir was a wonderful person. I used to chat with him a lot; he was very interesting and nice."</i></span><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>"I had the pleasure of training with Amir a few weeks ago. He was so helpful and patient and I really enjoyed getting to know him better. He had a great sense of humor, too. We will all miss him."</i></span><br />
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Indeed, we will and we do. Every day.</span></span>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-30531889061968628112018-11-15T18:23:00.002-05:002021-03-22T15:56:29.626-04:00Four Years<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKP4M-nkROrFzKKAOdKhs7QMZkmUOi38zpR-VXZAHWYn51H4fYnZI70JNFgfoA0ClmERjEcZ8TODA-mBrse99v2beznzXaYzlrUjDfPCM3PD01s0w49zT1oVvUWL_jZQNKzIV9IJL3/s1600/Amir+-+2003.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="438" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKP4M-nkROrFzKKAOdKhs7QMZkmUOi38zpR-VXZAHWYn51H4fYnZI70JNFgfoA0ClmERjEcZ8TODA-mBrse99v2beznzXaYzlrUjDfPCM3PD01s0w49zT1oVvUWL_jZQNKzIV9IJL3/s200/Amir+-+2003.jpg" width="156" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Next week, November 22, will mark four years since the day our beloved Amir died. Some days, I still cannot believe he is not here and, on top of <i>that</i> disbelief is the disbelief that I'm still in disbelief. If you can't quite wrap your brain around that, imagine how senseless it seems in my own mind. I miss him terribly every fucking day and as I navigate this life without him, his absence reverberates in countless ways.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I'll be spending the 4th anniversary of Amir's death in Europe (Prague, this time). I am anticipating another bittersweet journey -- I'm excited and grateful to explore a new city and country, while I'm pained to recall how badly Amir wanted to see the world beyond his own and how heartbreaking it is that he never got the chance. He was robbed of so many other chances as well. (Of course, if I start enumerating all of those, I won't get around to what I'd intended to write here.)</span><br />
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<span>As November 22 nears, I want to share the heartfelt and remarkably complimentary things people wrote about Amir immediately after he died. The health club where he worked for several years (SAC) held a well-attended memorial service, at which they circulated a guest book. I'm proud and humbled to share the wonderful tributes SAC's members wrote about Amir<span style="color: #cc0000;">*</span>. Some are lengthy, but I hope you will read them and, in doing so, expand and enhance your sense of who Amir was.</span><br />
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<span>First, a note from his boss:</span><br />
<i><span>"Amir was an amazing person. He worked hard for me and the club. The members will miss him; they were his friends and SAC was his home. We will forever remember him. He always took care of us. I read an excerpt from Amir's writings. It was an amazing bit of literature that described himself and life. He will always be in my heart and mind and in the hearts and minds of everyone at SAC."</span></i><br />
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<span>Notes from club members:</span><br />
<i><span>"SAC has been a better place because Amir brought a quality forward that is hard to find. A kind and honest spirit that everyone loved."</span></i><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>“He was indeed Amir (which means ‘rich’ in Hindi) – in his talk, dealings and helping others. He was one of my favorite friends at the tennis desk. May he continue to touch others.”</i></span><br />
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<i>“[He was] a bright star and sharp wit and always so grateful.”</i></span><br />
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<i>“Amir will be missed for his dependability, level-headedness, insightful thoughts and all. He was a pleasure to know.”</i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Amir was a fine man and we really enjoyed talking to him. We were impressed with his maturity and integrity and we will miss him."</span></i></div>
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<i><span>"Amir was a great friend. I loved discussing music with him. He was intense and cultured. We talked a lot. The last CD we discussed was Caetano Veloso and David Byrne at Carnegie Hall. He liked talking about his parents and how great they were. He pointed at the fact that mixing cultures was always a plus. I will miss his friendship. He is one we all liked."</span></i><br />
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<i><span>"Amir was the kind of guy that took some effort to get to know, but that is what was delightful about him. Through our conversations, I discovered that Amir had lots of layers. One was his dry sense of humor. We were forever teasing one another and he seemed to be always having the last laugh, so quick and witty. We talked of sports, his love of writing, politics and religion. I learned through our conversations how important family was to him. He told me once his guidelines for dating and the one that stood out was that she had to have a good relationship with her family. This was a true example of his kind spirit, unselfishness and soundness of character. There was so much more to Amir than people realized that was hidden because of his quiet nature. But his compassion for life, honesty and strong principles soon became clear as you got to know him. Amir positively affected other people and brought such joy to our lives."</span></i><br />
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<i>“I always enjoyed chatting with you and discussing basketball. I remember you as a very kind and cheerful person.”</i></span><br />
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<i>“I will miss our chats. I will miss your dry sense of humor. I will miss your patience with us members.”</i></span><br />
<span><i><br /></i>
<i>“You were my secret friend. You helped me through the darkest period of
my life, simply by being you. For months, I would come to string
racquets, just to have something to do other than obsess about my circumstance.
I was always glad when you were here. Even our long periods of quiet in that
small room were never uncomfortable. I knew we could pick up a conversation
where we left off any time. You got the play by play. You knew my secrets.
You were wise, tolerant, patient. I truly treasure that time spent with you.
You weren’t perfect. You had flaws like we all do. But you were the perfect
person at the perfect place at the perfect time – for me. I will miss you,
secret friend.”</i></span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">*</span></b>These comprise only a small selection of the tributes in the guest book. Please stay tuned... I look forward to posting more soon.</span></span><br />
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<br />Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-42590067953972623522018-09-06T14:43:00.002-04:002021-03-22T15:56:16.142-04:00"Found Treasure"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKozIAUOJCfiozA4JZKBsXTfIv1NVh35n-lWfzXJlzgki2TMVcY1oH5ZZcwmErxlLPPEdWYY8ufhl1nZR3s5iTp3tQOSUs6_-7vas8EouSnzQwUuIxRpX8HgJuuZoanD9O_P6L-8t8/s1600/IMG_0704.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKozIAUOJCfiozA4JZKBsXTfIv1NVh35n-lWfzXJlzgki2TMVcY1oH5ZZcwmErxlLPPEdWYY8ufhl1nZR3s5iTp3tQOSUs6_-7vas8EouSnzQwUuIxRpX8HgJuuZoanD9O_P6L-8t8/s400/IMG_0704.jpg" width="300" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">
I have not posted anything in several months, as I've been doing more private writing lately, leaving me with 5-6 drafts I want to post here eventually. Nearly four years after his death, I am still adding to my collection of notable tidbits to share with those of you who knew Amir and savored his unique wit and sense of humor.<br />
<br />
Another Labor Day has come and gone, a holiday that each year prompts me to reflect on my most recent time spent with Amir. Labor Day weekend 2014 was the last time I would ever see my sweet brother. We created some great memories that weekend, talking, drinking, taking long walks and relaxing with our parents. Fortunately, we had the chance to spend a few precious hours talking alone, during which we covered some important ground. I will always be grateful to have had that time together.<br />
<br />
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhi-ZReIBU8C6aKkaNqwXa880xsKTa-WTR60O2DBY4BUEHtWDtDK0CN96z2OQEbnCcq9THlm_OztSuoAQeW8df4nA79ryk1MRhgXrLqm-vf0LZxMEbKGIi8q0u-xWmFbGCGVedAlYH/s1600/IMG_0706.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhi-ZReIBU8C6aKkaNqwXa880xsKTa-WTR60O2DBY4BUEHtWDtDK0CN96z2OQEbnCcq9THlm_OztSuoAQeW8df4nA79ryk1MRhgXrLqm-vf0LZxMEbKGIi8q0u-xWmFbGCGVedAlYH/s400/IMG_0706.jpg" width="300" /></span></a><span style="font-size: medium;">At the close of our lovely weekend together, I hugged Amir goodbye at the airport and watched him walk away from me, his tall, lanky, backpacked frame breezing through the automatic doors and disappearing into the terminal.<br />
<br />
"Terminal" seems a sadly appropriate word now, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, Amir's friend Ian sent me an email he titled "Found Treasure," in which he excitedly reported his recent discovery of some ink drawings Amir had created when he was 18. Fittingly, Ian labeled the series "Human League Hangman," which I imagine Amir would find entirely appropriate. After all, I can't think of any subject Amir would have been more inclined to designate for a round of hangman than "Musical band."<br />
<br />
Upon opening Ian's email and checking out the photos, the first thought that occurred to me (as I smiled) was that I'd fucking <i>forgotten</i> Amir could draw so well.<br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>How the fuck could I have failed to remember this one of his many talents? I need to search my own archives for more of these priceless objets d'art!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> "Signed original!" Ian exclaimed in the email, declaring Amir's drawings among his most treasured possessions. And now they are among mine, as well.<br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTf1XkkN0y71Q97SqoRZt3sVe2K1D5dqD1rnD56OyKAajpy4aEIFOLh3OELSe1x6ElD8tA8_RpXuZTgBkTBptSrmP9BGAqQuJtE9fiDfpUvvwgGU_Tg0z-MxWRSQQbWe2uWq2QCl7/s1600/IMG_0707.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTf1XkkN0y71Q97SqoRZt3sVe2K1D5dqD1rnD56OyKAajpy4aEIFOLh3OELSe1x6ElD8tA8_RpXuZTgBkTBptSrmP9BGAqQuJtE9fiDfpUvvwgGU_Tg0z-MxWRSQQbWe2uWq2QCl7/s400/IMG_0707.jpg" width="300" /></span></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqIE3wuQ_FjM0_uNR4OUwXbl2x-DRTEZ8CUMQENspRfZ8DZK4mLP0VmKGXA34gZRQVG0DVcGBbjIoM8v7JU8EHFIESkF-zbicp7ve490-cU6cEV37jDOMVBEecgJgTYcZhb0YiMdn/s1600/IMG_0705.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqIE3wuQ_FjM0_uNR4OUwXbl2x-DRTEZ8CUMQENspRfZ8DZK4mLP0VmKGXA34gZRQVG0DVcGBbjIoM8v7JU8EHFIESkF-zbicp7ve490-cU6cEV37jDOMVBEecgJgTYcZhb0YiMdn/s400/IMG_0705.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
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Post-script: In spite of its user-friendliness, Blogger doesn't provide many options for tweaking the page layout so that photos appear the way you want them to. So be it.</span><br />
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<br />Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-2203708777278782882018-04-25T17:06:00.001-04:002021-03-22T15:56:02.102-04:00April 7<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">April 7 was Amir's birthday. I wrote this piece at the time but decided to keep it to myself for a while.</span><br />
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</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdq_GMeIjNvdMRj-hKs1FOfeRrhrfuvlKYDSPUhaaS9_i5Zr3MCDQWVG-Tl_26sypAeJUwNFHuetdv0PMp1OMMB_K5fetzPv4risOksmh8kWLtS68o_li9UxJxBF3wsH8HejO0ouKA/s1600/2009.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="304" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdq_GMeIjNvdMRj-hKs1FOfeRrhrfuvlKYDSPUhaaS9_i5Zr3MCDQWVG-Tl_26sypAeJUwNFHuetdv0PMp1OMMB_K5fetzPv4risOksmh8kWLtS68o_li9UxJxBF3wsH8HejO0ouKA/s200/2009.JPG" width="158" /></span></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My dearest brother, t</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">oday, you SHOULD be 42. But you are not here to turn 42. That fact never gets easier to believe or write or say or think. The shocking sadness of that first year or two has subsided into a dull, relentless ache that sits on my chest and doesn't demand much in the way of grief. Sometimes it feels as though it will never truly sink in for me that you are not here. How is it possible? Fuck, you'd be so disappointed in yourself and the universe for letting you slip away so young and sharp and full of countless items left to check off your ever-growing "To Do" list. Like me, you'd feel fucking cheated and indignant at the world for stealing so many years from you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The other night, I began thinking about how many regrets you'd have had you known your life would be cut short. I've thought a great deal about regret over the years and I have always tried to live my life such that, when my end comes, I have precious few true regrets about how I lived, loved, learned and treated other people. Still, as much as I've thought about regret in my life, I've never considered it more than I have since you died. What regrets did you have? What would you have changed, in haste, if you'd known your days were numbered? What would you have told me? What would you have written down or recorded for those of us who love you to find?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpssjQNwLTLJuHoCX3ZOlEkENuXJgvDRgmRyV4b4XimT5RYvVgBctwn_GC1V8XzvZbCdFmLOXm26S2SP8D11wg3EDae-z9PMM3ApevwcePYcP9sb3dM45kqG6b7kLGNZmmwhgRk1N/s1600/2004.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="433" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpssjQNwLTLJuHoCX3ZOlEkENuXJgvDRgmRyV4b4XimT5RYvVgBctwn_GC1V8XzvZbCdFmLOXm26S2SP8D11wg3EDae-z9PMM3ApevwcePYcP9sb3dM45kqG6b7kLGNZmmwhgRk1N/s200/2004.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">One thing that brings me peace in thinking of you is how proud and happy you were to have been able to be a confidante and counselor to me over the last year of your life. After years of frequent leaning on Yael and me for guidance and support, you had entered a period of stability and maturity in your life that allowed <i>you</i> to be there for <i>us</i> -- a welcome flip of the playbook, as you put it. You talked with me for hours, offering advice and support, and I know you felt proud that your guidance was trusted and helpful. Just two months before you died, the last time I saw you, you confided in me about some issues that had arisen in your life. In retrospect, I realize you may have admitted these things to me in the hopes that I could help or guide you, though I don't know if you'd have accepted help. I don't know if you actually needed help, nor whether you'd have realized it if you did. You wanted my advice about your girlfriend and your job, throwing in a confession about your having recently "dabbled" in some pills to help with your anxiety. You told me it was a minor sidestep off your chosen "clean" path and that you weren't willing to jeopardize your health, job or relationships to fall back into the inviting haze of self-medication, however much it beckoned you.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfWup4xOZ3FAZbkU06T2-dgy29yPreXd7BkMZ7cGT6RcCK1zhQQCbRJ0p95V8AiYFej3dOrFBR1ozg3qjtmCIviUHSGZTV7-IlnkX1LBhaoeVpwnu59NWrDQbglbwEtk9cZvLW3ug/s1600/Amir+-+2005.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="358" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfWup4xOZ3FAZbkU06T2-dgy29yPreXd7BkMZ7cGT6RcCK1zhQQCbRJ0p95V8AiYFej3dOrFBR1ozg3qjtmCIviUHSGZTV7-IlnkX1LBhaoeVpwnu59NWrDQbglbwEtk9cZvLW3ug/s200/Amir+-+2005.jpg" width="163" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Amir, you were one of the most intelligent, funniest, brightest, sharpest human beings I have ever known. Those things mean nothing when it comes to susceptibility to anxiety, self-doubt, unease, overthinking and self-medicating. In fact, your brilliant mind and unique outlook on the world likely contributed to your inability to quiet the racing thoughts in your head when you needed to. Why isn't that a skill taught in school? Wouldn't the ability to quiet your mind and its relentlessly-swirling chatter be more valuable in terms of life skills than fucking algebra or chemistry? Why not teach children and teens the much-needed skill of calming their anxiety via meditation or journal-writing or deep breathing or even exercise? As someone who often falls victim to racing thoughts and endless brain chatter, I'd certainly have benefited from training in self-calming methods that don't rely on drugs or alcohol. I would wager there are few people who <i>wouldn't </i>benefit from such training.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Yet, there's still a horrible stigma around mental-health issues, no matter how slight, including the common misconception that it's a personality or character flaw. I have decided I need to make an effort to help people suffering from mental illness or addiction in any way I can. You'd be intrigued by my occasional toying with the idea of becoming a therapist or counselor, but you'd also relate to my uncertainty and agree that it may not be the best path for me. You would also likely support my longing to help people in other, smaller capacities, which I'm focusing on now. I have a unique and rich perspective on relating to people struggling with mental-health issues, including addiction. I can empathize with their battles and I believe that empathy, along with compassion, will get me farther than years of schooling and training to be a certified counselor. I know you would encourage me and support me in my efforts, limited as they are for now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Back to you, brother. It's your birthday today and you should be here. You are so terribly missed. You might not have believed it had you known just how many people miss your presence in this world. Your absence is voluble every single day. I often wonder what words of wisdom you would impart to me? How would you guide me? What hilarious emails and texts would you send me daily to keep me laughing? How would you be celebrating your birthday? How much contempt and scorn would you muster for the absurdity of our political landscape?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">On your birthday, I will listen to music you loved, read things that spoke to you or made you laugh, talk about you and celebrate you, as I do on so many days that are not April 7.</span></div>
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Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-70511218715188545102018-02-27T13:13:00.002-05:002021-03-22T15:55:28.060-04:00The Lunatic Lumberjack<span style="font-size: medium;">A few weeks ago, I shared excerpts of some letters Amir had written his good friend Patrick in the late '90s, when he was 22. I've started a few other blog posts since then but nothing I'm ready to share just yet. In lieu of something new, here is a further amusing glimpse into Amir's mind, courtesy of his own detailed writings to a friend:<br />
<br />
October 1998:<br />
</span><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">To the normal observer, Arcata [CA] seems to provide little food for thought. That is to say that it seems like a slow, ordinary, uneventful town. But Arcata's true eccentricities lie below its dank-nug, lumber-lined surface. There's an underlying text to McKinley's domain.</span></i></blockquote>
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<i><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm sure you remember our friend who runs Hutchin's Liquor Store. Up until recently, I still held him in high esteem for the fact that he was the "strangest" guy in Arcata. Well, he's not. In fact, he's not even the strangest liquor store clerk in Arcata. I live downtown now, so my local beer supplier is Arcata Liquors, on the plaza. Every night when I go in, I am treated to the presence of the shifty, angry mountain man behind the counter. This is a big bearded man, with exploding pectorals and a neck the size of a small house. He's got narrow, threatening eyes and sometimes breathes heavily through his nostrils as if he were a wild boar. </span></i></blockquote>
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<i><span style="font-size: medium;">Most of time, all you can get from him is an indifferent "How's it going?" or other empty salutation. He just sits back there, arms folded, looking like he's about to tear the world a new asshole. Sometimes, however, he's Mr. Joe Social and talks up a fucking storm to anybody who walks in. I think he's on coke, or maybe speed, when I see him act like this. He'll be pacing around, babbling to customers about bourbon, hunting elk, and how if one more damn hippie pays him for beer with pennies, he's going to declare war on this whole tie-dye clad group once and for all. Clearly, this man has a bone to pick, an axe to grind.</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">One night, I walked in... all I wanted was a bottle of vodka and some O.J. Well, the lumberjack probably just snorted a line out back because he was totally revved up and I could have sworn I saw veins popping out of his neck and his face was all flushed and he was doing that whole nostril-breathing thing again. I asked him how much for a 375ml bottle of Smirnoff and he proceeds to go on a tangent about vodka and the difference between brands. So I humor him for a moment: "Which one do you like best?" I ask. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">Before I know it, he's got 4 or 5 bottles out on the counter and he's extolling the virtues of each one. "The Smirnoff is good," he says. "But Sky vodka is the cleanest." </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Really?" I mumble. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Fuck yeah," he says, getting excited now. "Shit, man, last weekend some buddies and me were shooting birds down at the marsh and I got so fucked up on that shit that I almost had to crawl home on my hands and knees." </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Sounds like good shit," says I. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">"You bet your ass it's good shit. Turned that marsh into Bosnia for a while, if you know what I mean." I didn't, and I was scared to ask.</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">[A few days later], I paid another visit to the aforementioned liquor store. This time, I was in line behind a gutter-punk street guy who asks of the lumberjack, "What's a good warm drink for a cold night like this?" </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">"Cyanide," the lunatic answers. Then, he looks at me, laughs (because I was chuckling at his recommendation) and rings me up.</span></i></blockquote>
Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-22047101496586522452018-01-13T10:31:00.002-05:002021-03-22T15:54:47.136-04:00On the Outside of Normalcy<span style="font-size: medium;">2018 is upon us and still I struggle to accept that my brother is not here. The complexity of grief can be distilled into a simple fact: I miss him every day. There's always something I wish I could share with him, something he would find uproariously funny, something he would guide me through. Just last night, I watched a movie taking place in 1995 that featured a song Amir had introduced me to (and, as a side note, was not actually released until 1996, making it misused in the film). Sigh.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, Amir's close friend Patrick Crawford sent me copies of a handful of letters Amir wrote to him in the late '90s, when they were in their early 20s. The letters are hilarious and dripping with Amir's typical flavor of sarcasm, angst, wild descriptions and intense cerebral navel-gazing. With Patrick's permission, I'd like to share some excerpts that offer a particularly deep dive into Amir's mind.<br />
<br />
First, an intro from Patrick:<br />
</span><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Your brother and I were frustrated writers...we emulated the Beat correspondence of the 1950's as pen pals in the late 1990's.</i><br />
<i>I sent him 4 letters and he responded with 4 letters.</i><br />
<i>I have those four letters and they are awesome.</i><br />
<i>I have cherished these letters for years because they are so honest and real and just really funny and a snap shot of the times.</i><br />
<i>They are also dark and dry and talk of depression, drugs, and loneliness.</i><br />
<i>These are personal letters only meant for me to read. </i><i>However, I really feel you need to read them because they will give you another glimpse at his fantastic brain and sense of humor.</i></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">
Amir's letter to Patrick, October 1998:<br />
</span><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">Now and then, I'll strum the guitar, jot down some lines, or have a sick silly time getting drunk with Berman and Levy and these activities are my respite from dull reality. My love life is in a state of quiet desperation as all of the wistful eyes those college girls turn to me soon look away, and my reaction is usually to laugh and say something cynical and mocking to myself to try to dull the wound. But the fact is, loneliness only comes in short spurts for me--most of the time I'm content to be absorbed in music and books and gratified by wordy exchanges with fellow slackers. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Yes, it's good to be on the outside of normalcy</b>. Respectable life is far too sterile. I bring this up to you because you and I are educational misfits... we are self-taught stylists and the more we cultivate our own art, the more artistic it becomes as all great art (grand statement) is the result of individuality.</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">I've just completed a long day of work and am relishing the silence of solitude... One thing I can say about the last few months is that I've become real chummy with our dreaded friend loneliness. Solitary living has become an uncomfortable reality. When I'm not at work, I spend all my time reading and writing. I've actually become quite diligent in my writing practice. It's really the only thing that keeps me sane. But I do love good novels, and lately I've been devouring one book after another, sometimes reading all night long. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Some recent favorites include: Rand - </i>The Fountainhead<i>; Hemingway - </i>A Farewell to Arms<i>; Steinbeck - </i>Grapes of Wrath<i> and </i>East of Eden<i>; Kerouac - </i>Vanity of Duluoz<i>; Kesey - </i>Sometimes a Great Notion<i>; Wolfe - </i>Short Stories<i>. I am truly addicted to the written word, almost to a fault. It's gotten so that I almost substitute the fantasy world of novels for real-life experience.</i></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">
"Addicted to the written word"... there's an addiction I have shared with Amir since we were kids. It's an addiction we talked about for hours at a time, one we shared with Yael and one I'm proud to have retained over the years. My life would be sorely lacking without it.<br />
<br />
But it's Amir's line about being "on the outside of normalcy" that I carefully ingested and, holy mother of shit, do I relate to it. In myriad, infinite ways. Since I was very young, I could recognize the feeling that I existed somewhere on the edge of what others perceived as normal or typical. I never felt completely at ease with other kids, apart from Amir. Even at a young age, I could sense that he shared my feelings of not quite belonging; of being fascinated by geeky things like maps and encyclopedias and astronomy; of being an inveterate introvert in a world of extroverts.<br />
<br />
I agree that, the majority of the time, it <i>IS</i> good to be on the outside of normalcy. I welcome it. However, Amir and I talked occasionally about how much easier and less anxiety-filled our lives would be if we could experience life inside that boundary of normalcy, if only temporarily. But we agreed we wouldn't be happy existing in that sphere for long. I have always believed that, in spite of its pitfalls, the outside of normalcy is a far more interesting place to dwell. I like it here.<br />
<br />
The superb Joan Didion once said: "I am a woman who for some time now has felt radically separated from most of the ideas that seem to interest other people." I relate to this in every way possible, knowing too well that strange longing to connect with what I imagined (and have learned) were a precious few others in the world who felt similarly. Amir was one of them. And how fucking lucky does that make me to have had him as a brother?<br />
<br />
More letters to Patrick at a later date. For now, here's to a happy 2018. xo<br /></span>
<br />Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-71149350410084351512017-11-21T12:25:00.003-05:002021-03-22T15:54:31.517-04:00Three Long Years<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKP4M-nkROrFzKKAOdKhs7QMZkmUOi38zpR-VXZAHWYn51H4fYnZI70JNFgfoA0ClmERjEcZ8TODA-mBrse99v2beznzXaYzlrUjDfPCM3PD01s0w49zT1oVvUWL_jZQNKzIV9IJL3/s1600/Amir+-+2003.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="438" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKP4M-nkROrFzKKAOdKhs7QMZkmUOi38zpR-VXZAHWYn51H4fYnZI70JNFgfoA0ClmERjEcZ8TODA-mBrse99v2beznzXaYzlrUjDfPCM3PD01s0w49zT1oVvUWL_jZQNKzIV9IJL3/s200/Amir+-+2003.jpg" width="157" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As impossible as it is to believe, Wednesday marks three seemingly endless years since Amir went on ahead and left us behind to endure this life without him. The vast, cavernous hole of his absence in our lives never shrinks, however we strive to fill it with love and support, of which my sister, my parents and I are lucky to have from so many sides. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">On those occasions when I allow my brain to venture into territory unbefitting of an otherwise optimistic, hopeful human, I ponder how sad it is not to believe in some sort of life after death, if only because I wish so badly I could see Amir again. Then, inching further down that depressing rabbit hole, I think that if I <i>did</i> believe in an afterlife, I'd consider killing myself just to be with him again--even just to spend a few precious hours talking to him. Then, I think how fucking furious he would be with me if I did that and how he'd kick my sorry ass all the way back to the land of the living. Then, as I often do when thinking of Amir, I laugh to myself at the idea of how he'd react to such ridiculousness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">For those who knew him well enough to be beneficiaries of his wit and cleverness, Amir's absence is painfully reflected in the acute decline of sharp humor in our lives and will continue to be felt through the years. As far as I'm concerned, every fucking day that goes by without a snarky text or email from my brother is deficient, for as much as I strive to acquire life's essential levity and ridiculousness from other sources, none will never match what Amir dished out. Nor would I want it to--he had a sharp tongue unlike no other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;">So, in asking all of you to remember and celebrate Amir this week specifically, I'll share some further glimpses into his singular mind (from various emails):</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><u>Sept. 2005</u>: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">I'm shamelessly enjoying some Hall and Oates on the radio, nursing my second beer, and missing you intensely, as I have not a soul to share my BRUTALLY APOCALYPTIC thoughts with. With love and disgust, Amir (self-style black sheep of Prizant lineage).</i><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><u>Oct. 2007</u>: </span><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">After talking to Yael today, I am now firmly convinced that we are a clan Under the Gun. Somebody, something is clearly testing Team Prizant and, of course, we are more than ready to meet the challenge. I can't remember a time in which we've experienced so much uncertainty as a family. I too feel as if I'm in limbo, and change is a foregone conclusion. </span></i><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">As for you, I ask that you remember Timon and Pumbaa from "The Lion King" and the wisdom of "Hakuna Matata," which means "no worries." Bobby McFerrin may have been on to something after all. I have no doubt that you will succeed, against all odds. I'll stick with the gambling metaphors and tell you that my money's on YOU; I'm willing to bet the farm that everything will work out fine, as it always does.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><u>Dec. 2009</u>: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Bored at work, though I did just have a 50-year-old woman introduce herself to me as the "resident cougar" of the tennis club. I suppose she was hitting on me, though it was hard to see her facial expression through all the Botox.</i><br /></span>
<br />Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-68782031602551045192017-10-20T10:25:00.002-04:002021-03-22T15:54:02.763-04:00This Game's in the Refrigerator<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4G3Xn177z93zFP3yP7ceSEyQc-qRzA9CG0rDGv9uJginrubvNyIFYsf4uQ2wlVTPBXHYb5BxIl5SExE9jBFKgqSQtnTVb2FfNAoyeBsxpWIiovgs8mHJemI1yJVctNd38TjlnH_E/s1600/Chick-Hearn-.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Chick Hearn" border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4G3Xn177z93zFP3yP7ceSEyQc-qRzA9CG0rDGv9uJginrubvNyIFYsf4uQ2wlVTPBXHYb5BxIl5SExE9jBFKgqSQtnTVb2FfNAoyeBsxpWIiovgs8mHJemI1yJVctNd38TjlnH_E/s200/Chick-Hearn-.jpg" title="Chick Hearn" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">As I'm sure I've mentioned on too many occasions, Amir was a committed L.A. Lakers fan beginning from the age of about 8 or 9. He loved Magic and Kareem and Worthy and he reveled in the mid-80s Lakers/Celtics rivalry. Of course, every Lakers fan loved the team's inimitable play-by-play announcer, Chick Hearn (who purportedly coined such terms as "slam dunk" and "air ball").<br />
<br />
In 1986, someone produced this fantastic mix of memorable "Chickisms" and interjections over an unfussy, out-of-the-box drum-machine beat. The "Rap-Around" got some airplay on local radio and, of course, Amir and his young buddies went fucking apeshit for it (including Mike Kelly, who reminded me of the song's existence just a few months ago):<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jwJ14u30ywY" target="_blank">Chick Hearn, "Rap-Around" (YouTube)</a><br />
<br />
Amir adored Chick's colorful language and phrasing, just like my father loved Yogi Berra's. I loved hearing them laugh from the TV room while watching a game; joining them occasionally, I'd snicker right along with them when Chick threw out gems such as <i>"The mustard's off the hot dog."</i> Owing to my minimal interest in the sport itself, I found the witty wordplay of announcers like Chick to be the most enjoyable part of listening to a game.<br />
<br />
As a young kid, Amir filled notebooks meticulously with pages of sports statistics and scores. He collected baseball cards and preserved them carefully and lovingly in plastic sleeves filling scores of three-ring binders, which he cherished. As a teenager and into his 20s, he wrote fairly extensively and wittily about sports, particularly basketball and baseball. I often encouraged him to parlay his extraordinary perceptiveness, cleverness and natural wordsmithing talent into becoming a sports writer. He could have been so fucking great, infusing sharp humor and wit into observations derived from his bottomless knowledge of and love for sports (a la the fabulous <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/05/29/530600033/frank-deford-nprs-longtime-scholar-of-sports-dies-at-78" target="_blank">Frank Deford</a>, whose greatness in my eyes comes from the fact that I enjoyed his sports commentary tremendously in spite of my possessing almost no knowledge of or interest in the subject matter).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
An aside: in writing this post, I came across this Chick Hearn quote, uttered at the point in a game when it became clear the Lakers were en route to victory: <b><i>"This game's in the refrigerator: The door's closed, the lights are out, the eggs are cooling, the butter's getting hard and the Jell-o's jiggling."</i></b> I don't remember having heard the phrase before, but I'm sure Amir had, as its influence was clear in his writing style. Plus, I'd bet he got a huge fucking kick out of it and that makes me smile even now.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-4131747528559161782017-10-12T11:14:00.002-04:002021-03-22T15:53:36.690-04:00He Liked the Sweet<span style="font-size: medium;">The magical Stefan Leikin does not use Facebook and was not aware of this blog until a few days ago. He has since shared with me and Yael this remembrance of some "special nights" with Amir (circa 1994, when Amir was 18):<br />
</span><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">A bottle of Captain Morgan.<br />Spinning records (starting with Nirvana)<br />Playing chess in his room for hours</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The debates we had were so much fun. He swore by Nirvana. I leaned toward Pearl Jam. And the debates continued. But we always had the Beastie Boys as our common ground. That was until the discussion switched to which Beatles album was the best. He really loved "Revolver." </i> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">No one knew about those nights. We were the only two left in Chatsworth. We spent a lot of time together. Those were good nights. We spent hours listening to records. Chess was the excuse to listen to more. Neither one of us was very good at the game but it didn't matter. Hanging out was the important factor.</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">And it was always Captain Morgan. It was gross, but he liked the sweet.</span></i></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">
Fuck. How is it possible I never knew my brother liked rum? He was never much of a drinker, though he enjoyed the occasional beer or glass of wine and sometimes indulged in Maker's Mark (with or without Coke). And I knew he enjoyed chess and played occasionally with my father but I never knew he played it with his friends.<br />
<br />
You see? This is exactly the purpose behind my reaching out to friends to contribute stories and memories to this blog. Nearly three years since my beautiful, brilliant brother left us, I continue to learn about him, to discover who he was and the spaces he filled in this world and this life. And I hope that, through memories like these, I will continue to learn about Amir (and learn <u>from</u> him) until my last day.<br />
<br />
Thank you so much, Stefan. May you (and all of us) always remember those special times.</span><br />
<br />
<br />Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-2693090225992550772017-09-25T11:53:00.001-04:002021-03-22T15:53:21.115-04:00Magical Cat Armpits<span style="font-size: medium;">My sweet kitty Melody (1996-2014) was the feline love of my life and the first cat I adopted on my own; with Amir's encouragement, I selected her from a litter of rescued kittens at a shelter in West Hollywood. When I saw her curled silently in a ball in the back corner of a cage full of bouncy, mewling crazies, I knew immediately she was the one. Amir was among the first people I called when I got her home: he knew I was nervous about taking on the responsibility of cat ownership with my busy work and school schedule and he offered gentle reassurance that I'd made a good decision. (One of the best of my life, I can still attest.)<br />
<br />
Mel was extremely attached to me and could be fickle and aloof when it came to accepting love or attention from other people. But she tolerated Amir. When he'd visit and approach her with a toy, her wee kitty brain thought "Playmate!" as opposed to "Get the fuck away from me." Amir's former girlfriend once referred to him as the "Cat Whisperer" and the moniker was truly fitting. He had a gentle, easy way with animals in general--and cats specifically--that was sweet and heartwarming. All of our family pets adored him.<br />
<br />
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY70to5zpPJvabhRpnzm9ewa_FA0atezaofkUnaL8jop3HTyLvg3LpQN0ED8PG2XXmgy91v5GXqPf39dqlGZf1RlvYcRIeYsF2g-Gp-uXZoSVIw5_fNQOIh9CMkRnMX0OVez6bXXox/s1600/MCA.jpt.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY70to5zpPJvabhRpnzm9ewa_FA0atezaofkUnaL8jop3HTyLvg3LpQN0ED8PG2XXmgy91v5GXqPf39dqlGZf1RlvYcRIeYsF2g-Gp-uXZoSVIw5_fNQOIh9CMkRnMX0OVez6bXXox/s320/MCA.jpt.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: medium;">Said former girlfriend once sent me an email with the subject line: "Amir has magical cat armpits," along with this photo of him with their newly adopted bundle of energy, Milo. She noted that, while Milo was affectionate with her as well, he would cuddle up and sleep only with Amir.<br />
<br />
In that email, she also mentioned that "All cats love to sleep inside his arm," which was true of Neko as well, even in the presence of other people who threatened to disrupt the undivided attention lavished on her by her master/slave. (This <i>is</i> a cat we're talking about.)<br />
<br />
Befitting and necessary of cat owners, Amir also had a great sense of humor regarding his feline housemates. He derived a lot of joy and amusement from their hijinks and he often sent hilarious emails updating me on their various exploits and adventures, often with photos. One excerpt:<br />
</span><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">"The cats have increased their activity level to the occasional chase game at 3AM, followed by 17 hours of napping and intermittent grooming. I would say they are useless pieces of shit if they weren't so damned cute. Neko also takes pride in her ability to puke on the bedspread twice a week. She clearly has body image issues."</span></i></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">
I'm missing my favorite cat whisperer today, as always.</span><br />
<br />Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-41425645247216220512017-08-24T11:21:00.002-04:002021-03-22T15:53:05.603-04:00The Cutest Girl Scout<span style="font-size: medium;">A few weeks ago, I received this message via Facebook from a childhood friend of Amir's:<br />
</span><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">I don't think we ever met. I was a friend of Amir's from elemetary and jr. high school. If truth be told, he was my first crush.</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">I was visiting my parents this past weekend and we were watching old home movies that my parents had digitized. One was of the Germain St. School Halloween carnival. There was a scene of me (dressed as a witch) waiting in line for a game with Amir who was dressed as a Girl Scout. I must admit this brought on a brief desire to cyberstalk him. I was certain that he would be a professor somewhere or an author in a corduroy blazer with suede elbows.</span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">I am so sorry to find him gone. Your tribute blog is beautiful and I'm not sure if this will bring you any comfort, but today there is another person in the world who is saddened by his loss and remembers him fondly.</span></i></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">
My heart jumped a bit as soon as I saw Amir's name in her message. This is nothing new. I smiled at the memory of Amir in the Girl Scout uniform--he was 8 or 9 at the time, blond and smirking and cheeky and cuter than any other Girl Scout around.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUFyktAFEGlvN-pAGeP4QjI-jXC37XI3ytWeNwlVFr0N5jssFmVndKjzDhmLIRMENBKah-I2zR3GS2AeXNvOIQb5nlyoa7volr76ylAZGjHWJuluBc6FR8cfPzih58gZwSh7JJabE/s1600/Girl+Scout+uniform.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUFyktAFEGlvN-pAGeP4QjI-jXC37XI3ytWeNwlVFr0N5jssFmVndKjzDhmLIRMENBKah-I2zR3GS2AeXNvOIQb5nlyoa7volr76ylAZGjHWJuluBc6FR8cfPzih58gZwSh7JJabE/s320/Girl+Scout+uniform.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">
I shared the message with my sibling-loss support group and I found one friend's reaction particularly interesting: she felt that such messages can sometimes cause more pain than comfort. I disagreed, saying I'm always happy to hear from anyone who remembers my brother, whether in a good light or not. It crushes my heart to pieces to think that my parents and Yael and I are the only ones thinking of him and remembering him every day.<br />
<br />
My friends and I ended up having an interesting discussion on the issue of receiving messages such as this. Like me, others said they found such messages comforting and, like me, they wished they would receive them more often. I long to hear that Amir made an impact on people; that they were affected by him in some way. I long to connect with people who miss Amir and who keep his memory alive in their minds, as I do every day.<br />
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I thanked the sender for reaching out, telling her how much it means to us to hear from people who have fond memories of Amir. I never tire of hearing stories about him, talking about him, remembering him. That's the whole fucking point of this blog.</span>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-76267438247136538582017-06-19T17:10:00.001-04:002021-03-22T15:52:52.685-04:00Three of Us<span style="font-size: medium;">There is an enormous difference between "two of us" and "three of us." When it comes to siblings and, in particular, to me and mine, the difference is painfully significant. I cannot overstate this.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">October 1980</td></tr>
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I love my sister with every ounce of my soul. She is the closest person to me in every way. That does not make it any less devastating nor easy to accept that it is just the two of us now. When we were three, we were a solid front: one more than our two parents or two grandparents. We were a team, united against any obstacles that tumbled into our path. We each had <i>two</i> siblings to confide in, to collaborate with, to seek advice from. Or just to laugh with over how ridiculous our lives and the world at large really are. There were <i>three</i> of us who grew up in our house, <i>three</i> of us who remembered the particulars of our unique upbringing, <i>three</i> of us who could help each other fill in the blanks of our childhood memories, divergent or not.<br />
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Now I find time spent with my sister to be more significant, more important, more special than ever. I mark her words carefully and put them in a special place. I try to imprint her voice, her smile, her eyes, her thoughts, in my memory more vigilantly. I could do so physically somehow, I would.<br />
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I do the same with my parents as they age, but without the benefit of seeing them through my brother's eyes as well, I feel as though something in my own perception is missing. I so long for his singular observations on our family dynamic. Yael and I had a long talk recently about our parents and what lies ahead for them and for us as their eventual caretakers. It was helpful and necessary, yet without Amir's input, our discussion feels incomplete. You know when you say, "Great talk. Next, let's discuss it with so-and-so..."? We can't discuss it with Amir regardless of how much we want to and need to. And without him, any decision or thought feels half-baked.<br />
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This does not get easier and I know it will get harder as time continues to take Amir further and further away from us. I feel similarly with regard to Jason--I continue to ponder every big decision with him in mind. I seek his voice in everything. He is with me every day, at the forefront, in small ways imperceptible to others but so meaningful to me and who we were together.<br />
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For the better part of my life, the two people closest to me absolutely were Yael and Amir. Then, Jason moved into my heart and became my partner. This exceptional trio made up the core of my world, my backbone, my home base. They were my touchstones. Now that two of them are gone, I struggle to move forward in spite of the need and desire to do so. The very core of my life has been shaken, stirred and rocked. I am changed irreversibly. And, though it may surprise people that I still grieve every day for these two remarkable humans, there will <i>never </i>come a day when I don't. Never.</span>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-5782058000228891872017-04-07T09:39:00.001-04:002021-03-22T15:52:38.719-04:00Another Birthday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialHZFeTiQjcEo0OmAhyphenhyphen2Hg461ib2TxZWJydK_PYlCoiH9gm2ut6FqnMymN7bb36NrgJfYMm4CWJFWLNbmIZlTWpzsKXT9FmqEGJeGBvosrfyl4NqYUQzZ1j3An5oJ3Xv6m4yhZ6eq/s1600/June+2007.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialHZFeTiQjcEo0OmAhyphenhyphen2Hg461ib2TxZWJydK_PYlCoiH9gm2ut6FqnMymN7bb36NrgJfYMm4CWJFWLNbmIZlTWpzsKXT9FmqEGJeGBvosrfyl4NqYUQzZ1j3An5oJ3Xv6m4yhZ6eq/s200/June+2007.JPG" width="170" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;">Our Amir should be 41 today. This whole week has been difficult and I wonder if I should just hibernate the first week of April every year? Sigh... I still have so much trouble with the sad fact that it just does not get easier. In fact, at times it feels more difficult and heavy now than it did two years ago. The more time goes by, the longer he's not here, the more lost I feel without him.<br />
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Two of his favorite bands released new albums recently (Spoon, a few weeks ago, and The New Pornographers, TODAY) and fuck if he wouldn't love them. He turned me on to Spoon years ago and would be thrilled at how much I like their new album. I'm so shredded that I can't talk to him about it. And he was so crazy about Neko Case and TNP... he'd surely be raving about that album, too.<br />
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That's really the thing about grief. Of course, we all feel destroyed that Amir's life was cut short, that he didn't get to accomplish so much of what he wanted to, that he didn't deserve to die. And of course, we all miss him in different ways at various times and constantly. But the hardest part is just the longing to have <i>one more</i> conversation, <i>one more</i> late-night phone marathon, <i>one more</i> hug. The constant longing to simply hear his voice and his laugh. The longing to hear his opinion on something mundane like a movie or album or on something important like what's happening in the world.<br />
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A few weeks ago, my family celebrated my cousin Arik's wedding in Mexico. The joy and love and happiness was so full and tangible... we all love Courtenay and were so thrilled to be there together to celebrate their love. And yet, for me, Amir's absence loomed so large and heavy and painful. I hate that my longing for him diminishes every family gathering, but how could it not? He should have been there. He should have been part of the celebration. <i>HE SHOULD BE HERE WITH US NOW. </i>That feeling will NEVER change.<br />
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I don't believe in mediums or seances or things of that nature, though I put aside my skepticism when friends or family who are grieving decide to try it. Who am I to tell them I think it's bullshit? If it gives them comfort, I fully support it. Even though I'm skeptical, I must admit I'm curious and I can understand their reasoning--it comes from something I <i>do</i> understand: the overwhelming longing to have some connection with our lost loved ones. What I wouldn't give to tell Amir we all love him and miss him and to hear he's at peace. If I had any real indication that a medium could offer me that, I'd try it. Skepticism goes out the window when grief takes over.<br />
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Anyway, I've gone off on several tangents--it's because I haven't written in a while and I'm overflowing with thoughts... I just miss Amir so much. Not only on his birthday but every single fucking day, my thoughts are never far from him for more than minutes at a time.</span></div>
Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-34054242413043890262017-03-10T13:06:00.003-05:002021-03-22T15:52:27.578-04:00The Greatest Potential<span style="font-size: medium;">Two weeks ago, during the Oscars ceremony, Viola Davis said this in her acceptance speech: "There's one place where the people with the greatest potential are gathered. And that's the graveyard."<br />
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That hit me like a punch to the chest. Indeed, one of the most difficult things about the death of a relatively young person is the lost opportunity to witness that person's true, full potential. This is certainly the case with my darling younger brother--he had so much left to achieve, to prove, to offer the world. He had so much he wanted to show all of us. Sadly, the same is true of my husband, Jason, and countless other young lives lost. What could they have accomplished given more time? What could they have contributed to the world?<br />
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Amir and Jason were both extremely gifted writers. Jason embraced the opportunity to study creative writing at NYU, where he excelled as a standout in his program. He wrote beautiful poems, plays and prose. Amir spent years jotting his clever thoughts in notebooks, always dreaming of writing professionally but never gaining the confidence to pursue it in spite of my encouragement. Both Amir and Jason wrote hilariously witty letters and emails, piles of which I have saved and will cherish for the rest of my life.<br />
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But, apart from the love and wisdom they imparted to friends and family and the many laughs they gave us, what undiscovered potential did they take with them when they died? We will never know, a fact that I find incredibly difficult to process and accept.<br />
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More on this later...</span>Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3048629350126971111.post-66842157000809908932017-01-15T11:03:00.005-05:002021-03-22T15:52:16.083-04:00Neko the Hunter<span style="font-size: medium;">From the time I was about 8 years old, we always had a family pet (or three). The first was a street-smart calico who wandered into our yard not long after we moved to CA from NY. Amir had noticed her first. He began requesting American cheese slices more and more frequently from my mom, who didn't think twice because that kid loved cheese more than oxygen. Eventually, my parents realized he was feeding cheese to the stray cat who'd been hanging around our yard. Thus, she became ours. We named her Brown Kit, or Brownie for short. (I cannot account for our lack of imagination in coming up with a name.)<br />
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Later, there was Buba the mutt, who, in spite of the love rained upon her in our house, ran away every chance she got until one day she didn't come back. Then, we got Skylar, our beloved golden retriever, who was such a part of the family for two decades that we still talk about him often and photos of him still line my parents' hallway, 20 years after his death. After Brownie, there was Henry the rockstar cat, who lived fast and died young, and Calvin (aka The Fatbox), our cuddly orange tabby gentleman.</span></div>
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As adults and (mostly) apartment dwellers, Amir and Yael and I all went on to adopt cats of our own. For years, Amir's feline companion was the fickle and finicky Neko, named for one of his favorite singer/songwriters, Neko Case. That cat worshipped Amir and rarely, if ever, let another human near her. The three of us talked often about our cats' antics and personality quirks, including exchanges such as this one between Amir and I:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Postscript:</b> We were very fortunate to find a wonderful new home for Neko with a work colleague of Amir's who was heartbroken by his death. She and her husband had also recently lost their cat. Neko's lovely new owners provided gentle reassurance and waited patiently for her to learn to trust them. They'll never know what peace of mind they gave us, knowing Amir's beloved girl would be well cared for.</span><br />
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Ayelethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07215948900633667868noreply@blogger.com0