The Spot

Dear Babe,

I drive by it every day now. The spot. That's what I call it. For weeks I couldn't bear to go past it and would beg anyone I was driving with to please take a detour. Even if it took extra time. Even if it didn't make sense. I couldn't go past where I lost you (why do people call it losing someone as if I overlooked where you were like a set of keys or my favorite earrings?). I heard your family was going to put a memorial there. I wanted so badly to lay a stake in the ground - YOU WERE HERE MY LOVE - but at the end just couldn't relegate you to a lonely cross in a median.

When I finally felt strong enough (another ridiculous word - strong - that's what they call it when you manage to make it through the day still breathing) I was in the car with Nicole and asked her to point it out. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe some sort of villainous looking asphalt splayed with wreckage and rubble. Something that matched the way I felt inside. Something sinister. Instead, it was just a harmless patch of median with tall grass. A flattened and dark car sized patch was the only proof that you were ever there.

It took my breath away for a moment. Right there in that spot my life as I knew it ended when you lost control. How could people drive by it so easily? Without a thought or idea that such a bright light dimmed there? I got irrationally angry; you know how I can be. You always teased me for getting so worked up. I decided then and there that I would never drive by again. Fuck that. Fuck the median and fuck the world and fuck that stupid building right across with the star that lights up at Christmas time. I would forever navigate around it. And for a bit of time that worked. I would take backroads until I passed THE SPOT and then would get on the highway. I felt triumphant. I had the control now. It was silly, but I'm a silly girl. That was one of your favorite parts of me.

When I made the decision that I was ready to go back to work, I realized that I would have to overcome my fear of it. Driving to Cambridge every day just doesn't afford the luxury of backroads. I thought about what you would say if you were here. You were always the one who gave me my brave - I was always my strongest when with you. And I thought about how you would put your arm around me and laugh at my hesitation - never to tease but to steady my nerves. "What are you so scared of?" you would say. "You got this. I'm not there, I'm right here."

And so two days before I went back to work, I got into our car and buckled up and looked at myself in the rearview mirror. "You got this," I told myself. I checked to make sure your good luck charm, your Red Sox bobble head (the one I tried to throw away every day) was still dangling with the air fresheners. And then I drove. I drove past it. The first time I had to get off at the next exit and I just cried for what seemed like years but must've only been minutes. And then I drove by again.

I drove back and forth past the spot for an hour, talking to you and blowing kisses and touching the bobble head when I didn't think I could do it. I drove by it until my tears were dried on my face and I was able to laugh at the impossibility of the situation. And I felt you next to me. Riding next to me, hand in mine, just like it used to be. And I knew I was ready. So I drove home and hugged Vera and called it a win.

The first few times driving by, I would hold my breath as I was approaching. I knew I could do it but I just kept expecting something horrible to happen. Nothing ever did. I just touched my lips to send you a kiss to Heaven. Today I was driving to work alone and was listening to music and singing my heart out when I realized that I had driven by the spot without noticing. I immediately started to cry as if I had done something wrong but then I heard you in my head again. That amazing laughter that always stopped my pain. You would be proud of me, I decided. You would say, "Silly girl, you could've done that all along." And then I drove the rest of the way with a smile on my face.

Love,

Amanda