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This time three years ago, Matt and I were in full newlywed mode. We lived in a loft style apartment in the busy medical district of our city and were both working as teachers.Back then, I had a difficult commute that spanned three different highways. In the morning, if I left at just the right time, I would be ahead of the traffic and the drive would take me 30 minutes. In the afternoon, there didn't seem to be a good time to leave. Bare minimum, I was in the car 45 minutes to drive 17 miles.
These commutes lent themselves to uninterrupted music playing. I would listen to several different artists, but one album made it into the CD player every day without fail.
That album was Back to Black by Amy Winehouse
. The raw desperation and honesty in her voice captivated me. The jazz and blues undertones coupled with her throaty voice were unlike anything I had heard before. I've admitted in the past my weakness for British songstresses and Amy was no exception.
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I quickly fell in love with the tiny, beehived British girl. Sure, her antics didn't escape my notice. As someone who has a past with a loved one who suffers from addiction, I waited for her to hit rock bottom. When I became very upset with her, I wrote her an open letter on my now defunct Myspace blog (yeah, I had one, what of it??).
In my open letter, I explained to her that if she didn't clean her act up soon, her disease would take her life. I remember telling her that I would be so angry with her if she died too early because I wanted her to make more music. I wanted to be able to experience how her musical talent would evolve once she made it to the other side of her addiction.
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Back to Black, while brilliant, was the creative outlet for a lovesick addict and the lyrics reflected a painful time in her life. I was anxious for her to turn a corner; I wanted to see how her music would sound in happier times. There was so much potential.Y'all, I wear rose colored glasses a lot of the time.
Turns out, I didn't get angry when I heard the news of Amy's death, as I promised I would. Instead, I became despondent.
When I heard the news, we were in hour fifteen of a sixteen hour road trip to Iowa. I decided to use my last few minutes of battery life on my cell phone to check out what was going on in the world.
I gasped as I read she had died. My eyes brimmed with tears and I thought about the open letter. I wiped the tears away and realized that there would be no anger.
No anger; just sadness.
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Sadness that a beautiful life was lost to addiction.
Sadness that such talent was squandered.
Sadness that she never got the help she needed.
I no longer have the long commute to work every day; when we bought our house I traded my 30 minute commute for a brief 10 minute jaunt. I don't listen to Amy quite as much as I used to, but I think on our way home I'll pop Back to Black in, for old times' sake. .
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