Wayne Anderson Smithey III was his name, but everyone just called him Andy. The first time I saw him, he was sitting on a trunk with his guitar, surrounded by adoring girls. I was 18, he was 19, and I was speechless. He seemed too beautiful to be real. I couldn't find any words to say to him, so I kept my distance. The first time he touched my hand, I held my breath. I couldn't believe that someone like him could find anything interesting about someone like me. I think I felt that was until the day he died.
He was so tall... 6'4" to my 5'3". He could eat four cheeseburgers in one sitting, look up and say "Anyone hungry? I called him "Hoss" after that day. He liked that. He wrote music... bluesy country, and was living in Nashville, working towards a record deal. He had a string of fabulous, beautiful dancer girlfriends that I could never compare with, yet he'd drive
thousands of miles to see me for a day. We wrote mountains of letters to each other as we traveled our separate ways across the country doing shows. We whispered secrets to each other over the phone and across the miles. He taught me basketball, we played catch, and I was always too scared to sing with him. He was also Diabetic.
I got the call around 6:30pm on a Monday night. I sat on the floor and screamed. Part of me misses that. Then, I could feel and touch the pain inside. Now, I am lost in this big dark cavern filled with tears. He went into this freak Diabetic coma on I-40 between Nashville and Knoxville- the doctors couldn't explain it - and crashed into a tree and died. 12 hours later, I was on a plane to Tennessee. 24 hours later, our other friend Spock and I were picking out the clothes he should be buried in.
And now, all these months later, I still don't know what to do. I can't believe it's real... it's some horrible, absurd joke. My friends say that I am being selfish, that I can't blame things on his death, but I'm not. It's just that my soul is missing. You know how it is when two people love each other so dearly and know each other so well, that you can't tell where you
end and the other person begins anymore? Well, that was us. He was my best friend, my longest love affair. We wrote the words, but never spoke them to each other. And now I am left alone. When he died, I had to call everyone.... I was the "Ex-Girlfriend patrol", calling them all. And I just wanted to scream. I loved him for ten years. They weren't enough.
You can email: Marcia firstname.lastname@example.org
anniversary date 11-24-97
date of post 05-15-99
Marcia, 29, writes about the loss of her soul, Andy.