Growing up in the same neighborhood, we first met in grade school. By junior high, Amy became my bestie. In the early days, Amy and I would spend all day setting up a house for her Barbies. Her Barbie would always be a doctor or a lawyer, and mine--um, a hooker. Innocent as I was, I thought a hooker was a dancer, and I liked to dress my Barbie in the short skirts I imagined a dancer would wear! But I digress. As Amy and I got older, we shared babysitting jobs, did our homework together, spent hours together in her room listening to the radio, playing cassette tapes (Menudo!), and calling boys on her fancy Victorian looking ivory and gold phone. We ripped posters out of Teen Beat magazine to decorate our walls, we practiced putting on makeup, and we dreamed about who we would be when we grew up.
Amy--a teenage fashionista, artist, and a self-appointed advisor in my life--held strong opinions about how I should present myself; frequently raiding my closet and putting together outfits for me, since I was clueless about what to wear. She had big ideas about who I should date. More than once she introduced me to a football player, a hockey player, a cute boy she met at McDonalds...and since I can look back on those teenage relationships all these years later with good memories, I can say her matchmaking skills were pretty good.
Amy's parents were my second set of parents, and her house felt like my home away from home. Even today, I think I could probably show up and walk in without knocking. I can still picture her mom perched at the kitchen counter with a bottle of nail polish or clipping coupons, and I wonder if the cereal is still in the middle drawer. Every time I load my dishwasher I hear her mom's voice in my head, telling me to "put the silverware in families--knife, fork, and spoon, so they don't stick together." I have fond memories of her dad and his jokes, and his voice in my memory tells me to stop watching MTV and go play outside. :)
Two weeks before my 50th birthday, my phone beeped early in the morning. It was an incoming message from Amy's sister. "Hey, Jenny. Wanted to let you know that Amy passed away, just this morning. She had a heart attack. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this news."
Today was Amy's 50th birthday party, six months after her death. There were photos and treats and sparkly decorations. I hugged her parents, her sister, one of her aunties, and some other parents from the old neighborhood. I saw the cousins we used to babysit who are now all grown up. I chatted with high school friends who came to honor Amy's memory. I saw one of the old "Amy-orchestrated- boyfriends", and we introduced each other to our spouses. Amy's mom and I laughed about how Amy would have had opinions about what we all wore to her party. Her dad said I could come over and visit anytime, and I think I will.
Amy's time on earth wasn't always easy. She'd had her share of struggles and there were times when we fell out of touch with each other. But then we'd reconnect, share updates about our lives, and talk about how much we needed to get together. Our last conversation, last Christmas, was about how we needed to get through the pandemic so she could meet my new husband. Though Amy never got to meet him, today the rest of her family did. We all agree that Amy would approve.
Every day since the morning of her passing, I have thought about Amy. It's not as fun being all grown up, being 50, without her. Every time something big happens, I want to call Amy. Every time I don't know what to wear to an event, I want Amy's advice. Every time I'm in a show and I can't figure out how to style my hair, I want Amy. I'm guessing I will always wish I could call Amy.
Amy was one-of-a-kind. And of all the besties in the world, I'm so glad she was mine.
"For a long time we grew side by side: our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that." A. Condie
