Dreading Time

The anniversary of Ingrid's death is coming up again, and I still can't believe it. How can it be two years? How can it be at all?

Come back, Ingrid. Come back. I still miss you so much.

Just yesterday I thought of something from our youth and thought, I'll call Ingrid and ask her if she remembers. But of course I can't do that.

Once again I am reminded: Life is not fair. Not even a little bit.

Damn it to hell.

Making Do

I am sitting here, trying to wake up after a very late night of flat-out work, staring at the TV. And who comes on but Ute Lemper, yet another singer Ingrid tried to persuade me to like. And I'm watching it, and listening, because I know that Ingrid would have.

God, I wish you were here to watch it, too, Ingrid. I'd listen to any kind of music for any length of time, just to have the chance to see you once more, just to see you enjoying something you loved. But Ute Lemper will have to do.

Sigh.

Moving On, Not

Now that I've decided to move back to the US, at least part-time, I find that I'm more tortured than ever about not making it back in time to see Ingrid one last time. None of us could have known how fast things would be, how fragile she really was. But that doesn't make it any easier.

I'm sorry, Ingrid. I didn't know that 17 days would be too many.

You Need to Know

Lately I've been working Ingrid into my conversations more often, I notice. Last week at the OutGames, talking to a graphic design prof from New York who had once been in the film business; today with the woman who is redesigning my business cards... I'll take any tangential opportunity, it seems, to make sure people know who Ingrid was because now they don't have the chance to know for themselves.

Here's my broken record for the day, Ingrid: I miss you, I love you, I cannot let you go.

Listen up, world: Ingrid was amazing.

Ode an die Freude

I listen to Ode to Joy all the time now, Ingrid, just because it reminds me of you. I remember how you hated your middle name, and I've come to love it.

Joy.

Yeah, that was you, pal.

Happy Birthday, Ingrid

Happy 50th birthday, Ingrid.

I want to be on the phone with you right now, making some very bad joke about how old you are, about how you're in your fifties, for crying out loud, while I am still a young and supple 40something.

And, of course, as always, I want to remind you that you will always be older than I. Damn, but I still want that to be very, very true.

Instead, this is the year we catch up to each other, the year we are both 48.

I hope that you are fat and happy on cake, Ingrid, and that your only worry is which of your thousand favorite bike rides to take. Because in heaven, you get to have more than one favorite.

Happy birthday. I miss you.

A Million Other Things

You know, Ingrid, you have a powerful influence. And not one I always like, pal... Suddenly I'm totally into a girl band from France? France? Seriously?

Don't think I can't hear you laughing as usual. And don't think I can't hear Edith Piaf singing in the background, after three decades of claiming not to like her just so I could tease you about it. You and I could hold a joke between us forever.

With your voracious musical lust, you'd have known about the girl band years ago. By now you'd have already championed, obsessed over, vaguely lost interest in, and archived all their music, knowing there'd be just the right moment one day to use it for a video or commercial or gig or party or God knows what. And when you did, it would be just right. Touching or hilarious or ironic or a million other things. Like you.

Because you were just what you needed to be, pal.

A Day, A Year, A Life

Today is the first anniversary of Ingrid's death. Maybe, like a lot of new things, it takes some getting used to. Because I'm not used to it yet no matter how much acceptance I want to cultivate.

Ingrid... who can think of her and fail to smile, to hear her laughter, to remember her warmth? Surely she was one of the funniest people on the planet. She could make you hoot and holler at the stupidest stuff, things no one else could raise a chuckle for. For crying out loud, I don't even have to remember her older than 17 or so to smile. I'm still laughing about the S&Ms and the gorilla socks and the nights making out under the stars and a thousand other juvenile, teenage things. And that was just the girl. The woman was even more amazing. Was there anyone more committed to laughter and love?

How can it be one year that she is gone? How can it even be one day, damn it? How? Bring her back, make it untrue, stop screwing around, God. This is how it feels today. And this is how it feels every day, in the little corners where you keep the things you know aren't true.

So it's a mixed bag, at best. Acceptance, grief, humor, love. In the end, maybe that's what gets us through the night and the day and the one year and all the rest. I hope so, because I miss you, Ingrid Joy Wilhite, with a fierceness and rage that I cannot shake. And I feel you with a warmth and love that I cannot deny.

I miss you, Ingrid. I miss you. I miss you.

--Caren Crockett