My dearest Mia,
Today marks two years since we said goodbye in a breezy, sunlit room in San Diego, with Ella Fitzgerald singing sweetly along.
So much has changed around our Lower East Side neighborhood since then. The pickle store downstairs is now a cigar shop, for example, and the bar on Clinton Street where we first met ("the local") is has been remade as an Irish pub (pretty good, actually). Some things are the same, of course. Babycakes still makes amazing agave-sweetened mini-brownies, and the "Thai place" downstairs (the one that never was actually Thai but makes great organic burgers) is still going strong.
I wish I could tell you I'm tear-free these days but I'm not gonna lie. I cry some when I think about all the sweetness and the heat and the love and the friendship we shared. I don't cry for our time together but for the emptiness left in the wake. The three years we spent together were just the preface to a most brilliant book; a delicious appetizer and cocktail, signaling a fantastic multi-course meal to come; the opening strains of the first song on the most incredible album of all time—the album we'd want to keep pressing the Repeat button on—the album that would reveal new sounds and new images with every spin, even with its familial comfort. As best as I can, I channel my sadness into positive things. I'm writing songs, taking pictures, doing some healthy cooking at home. Also trying to just relax and enjoy myself, as you told me to do so many times. It's not always easy.
I don't have a clear concept of Heaven, or of reincarnation, but I do believe you are somewhere special now. I can't begin to imagine what it looks like, smells like, feels like, but I hope there are juicy burgers and crispy frites and cold lagers. I hope there are children who will be drawn to your shining spirit and make you laugh; I know you will teach them how to live their lives to the fullest and show them how how to tell their own stories through photography and writing. I hope 'The Big Lebowski' is playing in a beautiful old movie theater, and that you watch it with a big bag of buttery, salty popcorn, laughing out loud at Walter and the Dude. I hope you've got your laptop, and iPod, a good pair of boots, your big North Face Coat, and fuck-off sunglasses.
Missing you madly, singing for you always, and—as promised—growing my beard and not losing my belly.
Hugs, kisses, and so much more,
~Adam
