Dear Andy

Dear Andy,

As I sit here writing this letter to you, I've just found out that my uncle died from a massive stroke. He was 76 years old. We weren't particularly close and I rarely saw him so I'm not debilitated by grief or sorrow. Instead, I'm just thinking about you. All that's spinning through my head is how unfair life is. How is it that my uncle lived a relatively long life while yours was cut short at the age of 30? In some ways, it ended before it could really begin. Is there anything more tragic in life? 

Today marks the 15th anniversary of your passing.

We met when you were 15. We were friends for 15 years. And now, it's been 15 years without you. 

In my memories of you, you're still a beautiful, generous, amazingly warm-hearted 30-year old. Meanwhile, I'm 48 with a wife, three kids, a mortgage, and a receding hairline. In a way, my memories of you are the memories of my youth. I miss many things about my youth but none more than having you as a friend. 

I miss you, Andy. 

I still think of you often. Just not as much as I used to. And that not only scares me but also makes me feel both sad and guilty. Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar. Here's what really happens: The spaces between the times you miss them grow longer. Then, when you do remember to miss them again, it's still with a stabbing pain to the heart. And you have guilt. Guilt because it's been too long since you missed them last. The admixture of guilt and sorrow is a heavy cross to bear. 

I used to think about you every single day, Andy. Everything I experienced reminded me of you. I'd walk into work and miss your morning calls. I'd be in Central Park and could only think about days spent tossing around a football before watching the Giants game together. I'd go to the beach and think about all the long walks we took together, talking about life and laughing at the absurdities of it all. I'd sneak out of a party without saying goodbye to anyone and think about whenever we went out, you'd see me leaving and make sure to give me a hug and say, "I love you, brother. Talk to you tomorrow."

EVERYTHING reminded me of you.

Now, I feel like I'm remembering the spirit of you more than the actual you. I have mixed emotions about that. I guess the confusing mixture of pain, sorrow, and guilt I feel is the price I pay for having had you in my life. 

And make no mistake, Andy. I'll gladly pay that price. 

I know that, more than anything, I'll never completely get over losing you as a friend. You'll always live forever in my heart and soul. And despite the fact that I may not think of you as much as I once did, your presence in my life is like a limb that breaks but never heals perfectly. It sill hurts when you focus on the pain, but you learn to dance with the limp.

And nobody loved dancing more than you, my friend.

I miss and love you, Andy. I really do. And I always will. Now, forever, and always. I promise. 

All the best,

Your friend Pierre

 

Andrew Golkin, 1970-2001

Comments

[phil]

Always loved your blog, and miss that euphoric and heartfelt community. This will be the most stirring remembrance of 911.

[Devra]

Time does not heal, time merely provides a measutement of distance. The analogy of "we learn to dance with the limp" reminds me of my Hassidic roots. The Hassids dance as a way to express their feelings, even while grieving. They remind us their is joy to be had in life as we dance through it. Also we have the BeeGees to remind us "You shoulf be dancin' yeah..."

[April]

Thank you for posting and sharing your memories of Andy with us. I always remember to come to your blog to read your yearly letters to Andy.

[DefendUSA]

"Everything is everything, but you're missing" is how it feels. This one made me cry, Pierre. I just listened to The Rising CD of Springsteen and it captures so much emotion of that day. You're Missing is one of those songs...
Andy's spirit is just as vivid as his person because he has you to bring it back to people like me, who only know you because of your eloquence to write and remember him and the soul you loved. And because of you, we want to remember Andy, too, even though you fear the fading. Embrace this little slice of joy you've created as we marvel at the friendship and love you show us for Andy every year. Thank you.

[Lauren]

Fifteen years feels like a long time. As your years without Andy pass, my "baby" in my belly 15 years ago just started high school. And even with all these years, it still feels scary, sad and unbelievable. Thank you for these posts.

[Celeste]

Beautiful writing about the hardest thing.

[Julie]

I come back every year to read your letter to Andy. It helps me get through this day - the events that continue to make no sense!!!

[Julie]

I understand what you are saying about feeling guilty, but please don't. You were the best friend Andy could have had...in life & now in death. What a beautiful & heartfelt tribute once again. I didn't know anyone personally who lost their lives that tragic day, yet every year I read your letter & weep for those lost lives & for all left behind. Rest in peace Andy. Pierre, sending love to you from Baton Rouge.

[Amy]

Every year I look forward to reading your letter to Andy. Thank you for sharing your friend with us and allowing us to know him through all the heartfelt words you put on this blog.

[Ambookgeek]

As with others, I come back every year to read your beautiful letters to Andy. Your yearly tribute serves as a reminder for me to savor the moments that matter with the people that I love. I am grateful. You and Andy both seem blessed for having been part of each other's lives.

[melissa]

Like many others, I come to your blog every year to read and remember your friend. It certainly doesn't feel like 15 years. Peace to you and all.

[Mel]

A wonderful piece as beautifully written as always. #neverforget

[Benita]

It's nice that you remember your friend annually with letters. What seems less sensitive is using someone else's death as a literary device (e.g. I mourn one but not the other, one was youth tragically cut short, the other an old man who probably didn't have much left in him anyway). And I would think that even if that person hadn't been your relative, which he was. And I would think that even if I weren't his daughter, which I am. It just seems in poor taste and judgment.

Additionally, your remembrance, loyalty and love for your friend is admirable. If only they could be extended to your family members? Your parents looked rather lonely at the dinner they hosted shortly after the funeral, for the members of your family who flew in from Korea and California for the services and to grieve together. And we also missed you at the funeral. I'm aware that you were not well acquainted with my father or the rest of the family, so I do not expect you to be terribly upset at my fathers passing (which, obviously as you have proclaimed, you are not). I would expect you to have some more compassion for your own father, at 88 years old, who has just lost his last remaining sibling, the final of four brothers to predecease him. That can't feel good. And I could tell from seeing him and speaking with him, that he's in pain and broken hearted, and largely suffering alone. But maybe as you say, that's just part of the unfairness of life sometimes.

Ps. We consider my fathers death, though he was 76, also untimely and tragically early. He was running several companies, hiking two hours a day (last year he slowed down and ceased running an hour a day), traveling the world, learning to play the saxophone, and spending lots of time with his five grandchildren who loved him and love him still. There is never a need to compare the quality or value of one life over another.

[YP]

Thanks for sharing your memories of Andy. I'm always deeply touched to read them. They make me wish I knew him, and think about how lucky you were to have a friendship like that. I do believe his spirit lives on.