How Amy Winehouse made me cry...

The summer of 2006 Sawan and I took a trip to Montana.  That same summer, my friend Ingrid introduced me to Amy Winehouse’s debut album, Back to Black.  For those of you who aren’t Amy Winehouse fans, it’s this great album that has almost a mo-town sound, with back-up singers, but with modern day themes and she’s actually so, I don’t know, crass in a delightful way that I just loved this album.  I listened to it a lot.  But it was sort of chick music.

When we were on that road trip, and I remember exactly what part of the road we were on (I-90 just north of Sheridan, WY), I put the CD in and we listened to it.  Sawan was entertained by the style of the music and the clever way she could use the f-word.  But once through was all he could take.  Every time I was about to DJ the party he would suggest that I not choose that album. 

A few times since then it would be on in my car and he would humor me, and obviously he had heard her songs on the radio, but I don’t know if it had something to do with his sobriety and her obvious struggles with addiction, or if he just really didn’t like her, but we didn’t listen to her much together.  We did, however, talk about her occasionally and what a train wreck she was.  Always with compassion.

One of my clients on Saturday sat down in my chair and asked, “Did you hear about Amy Winehouse?”  She died, and they don’t know why yet, but it seems that her short, troubled life is over and that it is likely addiction that finally took her.

My immediate thought was, “I have to call Sawan and tell him.” 

I know that’s so strange.  But this happens from time to time.  It had been awhile, but it happened on Saturday.  My brain knows that I’ll never see him again, but occasionally, in my subconscious, I think, “I’m just gonna call him real quick and tell him….” This is the edge of craziness that I feel like I’m always on.  This is what it’s like to be a widow, even when you’ve had the space of almost two years.  I wonder how long this will continue to happen?  I wonder why my brain can get it that I’m not going to see him, but can’t seem to grasp that I’m also never going to talk to him.  It’s frustrating, because it feels so devastating when I have those thoughts.  It’s like realizing all over that he’s died.  Luckily, it happens so much less frequently than it used to.