Growing up in a small town and in a family that normalized putting dead animals in the garage freezer, pending future burial, these are stories of childhood shenanigans, humility, resiliency, growth, and really terrible haircuts.
Adriana was a mother of two baby girls, the wife I always strived to be, and a beloved trainer for the Seattle Athletic Club. She was killed in a horrific accident that haunts me to this day. Next month marks four years that she has been gone.
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She was tiny, but fiery. She beat me in a hula hoop competition, barely. She was competitive like that, but never an ass. Winning that title would have been on my resume, but she was humble and didn't throw it in my face ... too often.
She was funny ... like she could go toe to toe with anyone and if you didn't feel like joining in, you could just sit back and watch the show. Adriana relentlessly made fun of her husband, and he would happily return the burns. By the end of it, we'd all be rolling on the ground, weeping with exhaustion.
The last time I saw her, she presented a pair of black socks with pink, blue, and green argyle print weaving through. She said, "I know, socks, right? What a weird gift. But I couldn't come empty handed." I still have those socks, but now that they are threatening a hole, I refuse to wear them. They are all I have left of her, and I need them to stay intact.
Below is a letter I wrote for her the night before her memorial.
Dear Adriana, Tomorrow, we head up to Seattle to celebrate your life. I've been composing a letter to you in my head for days now, and I figured now is as good of a time as any to try and articulate it for you. You've been gone for two weeks and three days.
I was at work, sweating pretty hard over a deadline. Jake called me and said, "I think something has happened to Adriana." I felt like a fist went through my stomach. "I'm seeing posts on Facebook about an accident". I actually didn't believe it. It was a terrible mistake. Nobody could put out that light.
I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, and staring at our last texting conversation. We were planning your visit down here in April. It took us forever to coordinate a weekend because of Easter (your favorite holiday), and a family reunion. We finally got something on the books, and then I texted you that Jake wasn't feeling well, and we should reschedule for the summer.
We talked about how we could sit outside, drink wine, and do some "hands off parenting" while our kiddos created chaos on the trampoline. Oh, how my regrets run deep, knowing I could have seen you one last time.
I still have your July visit in my calendar, titled with exuberance "The Browns Visit!!!!". The last thing you said to me was that you wanted to make a pact to get our families together every winter and every summer. It was going to be our new tradition. And then you followed up with that you were the worst decision maker in the world, so it'd probably be up to me to get the details dialed in. We texted "high tens", and then that was it.
The text thread stops there.
I was thinking about the first time we met. It was my wedding, exactly nine years ago, and Aaron was one of Jake's groomsmen. You were Aaron's date, and after some small talk, dripping in sass, you picked up my hand to evaluate my ring. You looked at Jake, "Nice work, Fisch." Then you turned to Aaron, "See Brown?!", as you playfully paraded my hand in his face. It was then that you walked off, dancing. Because Justin Timberlake was playing, and you always danced when JT was on.
