The Seat Next To You

"When I'm tired and thinking cold,

I hide in my music, forget the day...."

Boston

"More Than A Feeling"

Whenever I hear that Boston song I feel as if they wrote those words just for me. For as long as I can remember, I have turned to music whenever I was upset or sad or lonely. It has always understood just what it was that I was feeling. Whether it was a poignant lyric that cut straight to the heart of the matter or a plaintive note from a wailing guitar, it was solace to me. Music helped me deal, helped me cope, helped me get through whatever I was feeling.

I'm sure plenty of people out there feel exactly the same way I do, but in my circle of family and friends, I know I learned this from my uncle. I grew up in a two family house with my parents and sister, and my grandma and uncle upstairs from us. He is twelve years older than me and has been more of a big brother to me than a traditional uncle. His room was directly above mine and on weekend mornings I was always awakened by whatever sounds he had pumping through his gigantic stereo speakers. He introduced me to Led Zeppelin and Queen, Yes and Jethro Tull. He could go on about Chris Squire or Martin Barre or Steely Dan for hours. He was passionate about his music, and it rubbed off on me. When I started coming into my own musical tastes, he took a liking to some of my choices, and we could share an interest in David Bowie and Power Station. We've been to concerts together, traded tapes and CDs back and forth. He is alternately the bane of my existence and the hero of my life. I adore him.

The night before my grandmother had surgery for breast cancer, we went to a Motley Crue concert together. It was a show on the Dr. Feelgood tour and the aggression of the music and attitude of the entire show helped release some of the anxiety we were feeling, at least for a few hours. Several years later, just a few short weeks before we lost her, we went to see Foreigner. Lou Gramm was still with them at that point, after battling his own illness. The theater was relatively small, the stage in the round, the audience more sedate. Yet there we were, two fools jumping around, singing every song and, in my uncle's case, playing air guitar. We were quite a sight, I'm sure. But we were releasing our fear and upset through each song. When my grandmother passed away, I turned to my favorite songs for comfort. And for the rest of my life, whenever I hear a Patsy Cline song, I will think of her.

After my grandmother passed away, my uncle got married. He and his wife had two daughters. These little girls are my first cousins, but so much more than that. How do I explain? Besides my own two beautiful kids, I'm lucky enough to be a part of the lives of a small group of children. The way I feel about them, and what I would do for them, transcends the official title or role I have in their lives. I am not just an aunt or a cousin or a friend, that doesn't say enough or convey enough meaning. They are part of my heart. My uncle's daughters, Anastasia and Athena, are part of this little group.

In April 2008, I got the call that would change my life. At five months of age, Athena was diagnosed with leukemia. It might be a cliche to say you never think it will happen to you, but cliche or not, it is absolutely, heartbreakingly true.

For two years my family lived a nightmare. We watched as this little girl was put through the wringer of treatments, tests and medications galore. A full grown adult would not have been able to withstand what she did. Any one of us would have changed places with her without a second thought.

At the two year mark we celebrated, taking the doctors at their word when they said she had beaten it. But, within weeks, it was back with a vengeance. And unbelievably, we lost her on June 10, 2010, at two and a half years old. I didn't make it to the hospital in time, and that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

In the days and weeks that followed, I turned to my music to help me through the pain, but nothing brought me comfort or understanding. Then I heard a song that brought me back to my best time with Athena. I wasn't able to be with her as much as I wanted to when she was sick. I had my own responsibilities at home, and I always had to make sure my kids were healthy when we saw her to cut down on her risk of infection. Any time with her was precious. In August 2009, we were at my childhood home, gathered for her sister Anastasia's 4th birthday. Athena was happy, relatively healthy and toddling all over the place. That's all she wanted to do that day, walk. So that's what we did. We walked up and down the patio. We walked up and down the sidewalk in front of the house. We walked around the block. Wherever she wanted to go, I went with her that day, reveling in spending time with her and, I admit, kind of ignoring my own children because of it. When I sat down on the steps, she sat down next to me. When I got up, she patted the step to ask me to sit back down. I sat with her as long as I could. So now, and forever more, when I hear the Bon Jovi song "The Seat Next To You," I am transported back to that happy time with her.

About two lovers, the song really isn't apropos of our situation, but some of the lyrics say exactly what I need them to say.

"Baby, say that you'll take me wherever you're going to,
And baby, say that you'll save me a seat next to you."

These lines, especially, kill me every time.

"When you get to the gates and the angels sing,
Go to that place where the church bells ring,
You know I'll come runnin', runnin' to find you..."

This is my song to Athena.

I know in my heart she would have followed in the footsteps of her dad and me and music would have been a huge part of her life. She loved Lady Gaga and could sing the words to "Paparazzi," which my kids now call Athena's Song when they hear it on the radio. She also loved the Bee Gees and would watch a DVD of one of their concerts over and over. Sometimes it was the only thing that would soothe her when she wasn't feeling well. I feel cheated that we'll never know what kind of person she'd turn out to be.

Easter is coming, and it will be a tough day. Last year on that holiday was the last time I saw her at home. But I will think of her running on the spring grass, trying hard to keep up with her sister and my children, her loving cousins, and smile. I will listen to music to find a place of peace for myself, as I have always done and will always do. I will listen to her song, and think of happier times. And I know when I see her again, she will pat the seat next to her, and I will sit down.