In Memory of Matt Aydelott

I have spent these last few weeks trying to make sense of what happened to my cousin Matt. In fact – like so many of us here in this room – I have hardly thought about anything else. It is inconceivable that someone I loved so much, for so much of my life, could be gone in an instant. In the days after he died, I thought about that moment: the moment that marked the boundary between a time when Matt was still with us, here, in the present, and when, in a fraction of a second, he crossed over into the past. I thought about where I was and what I was doing at that moment, and was shocked to discover that it had been an ordinary stretch of time, like any other. I felt outraged that there had been no sign, no cataclysmic event, to indicate that the world had changed in such a profound and violent way: a clap of thunder would have been appropriate, or, even better, an earthquake; a shifting of the foundations, the ground under my feet, that had once felt stable and secure. I thought, Anything can happen now; anything is possible, now that this impossible thing has happened.

And yet, as difficult as it has been to confront this instantaneous and irrevocable loss, the greater challenge – the real puzzle in all of this, for me – is how to reconcile the Matt I knew with the person who, before dawn on a late summer morning, made a choice that he couldn’t take back. This is the mystery that has preoccupied me every minute since that day, and has left me searching through the details of his life for an explanation; because nothing I knew about him could possibly offer one.

The Matt I knew could see the humor in any situation. In fact, he was the funniest person I have ever known. He could turn the most uncomfortable or painful moment around by calling attention to the awkwardness and absurdity of it through his dry, irreverent wit. If he were here today, he would find a way to laugh. He would use his exceptional talents as a public speaker to say something hilarious and uplifting to us all, and leave us with a reassuring message of hope. Then, afterwards, he would join us at the bar for a beer. Matt knew how to enjoy himself, and took obvious pleasure in the time he spent with the people he cared about. To me, he was the unique and indescribable combination of family member and friend, and every minute I spent with him was cause for celebration.

Although Matt was well-known for his humor, his wit sometimes served to conceal the depth of his feeling and the intensity of his intellect, which revealed themselves in glimpses, through the music he loved, in particular his preference for haunting, melancholy ballads; and the writers he admired and who influenced his own writing, such as Richard Ford, whose work is complex, challenging, and infused with longing. Matt was deeply and selflessly committed to helping others, and this was reflected in both his politics and his professional life. He was an outspoken and unapologetic liberal who believed in offering assistance to those in need, and he held to this belief in principle and in practice. He was passionate about developing educational and career opportunities for the young people of San Luis Obispo county, and although he accomplished a great deal on their behalf, he never spoke about his work in terms of his own achievements; his reward came from observing the success of those he advised and taught. He was motivated, above all, by kindness, compassion, and empathy for those around him.

Perhaps most importantly, the Matt I knew would have taken the advice he would have given to anyone in this room: to reach out, to share the burden, to seek help from those of us who were so willing to provide it. He would have known how much he meant to his family, his friends, and his community, and how much we all loved him. He would have known how much I loved him.

What sense, then, can I make of what happened to Matt? How can I put these facts together – the fact of who he was, and the fact of the choice he made? The answer, simply, is that he was in pain; for whatever reason, he was in more pain than any of us realized. And pain has a way of taking over; of taking possession of every thought; of making your choices for you; of drowning out the truth so that you can’t see the other parts of your life: your talents, your worth, and the people who love you unconditionally and would do anything to help you. Pain has its own voice, and it lies.

Matt’s pain is over now; but the person he was is still with us, in those of us who loved him. He will continue to inspire us, to remind us of the humor and absurdity of life, of how to give selflessly, how to enjoy ourselves, how to laugh, and how to appreciate the people we love. These are the qualities I admired most in the Matt I knew; and my memory of the person he was is true, and unalterable, and needs no explanation. This memory will always be with me, even if he can’t be.