Still here now

17 Feb 2025

A close friend's father passed suddenly, sooner than we thought. I'm astonished by the amount of work that ensues amidst the devastation. She has been clearing out her father's space, and so I stopped by to help. Together we sorted through a lifetime of accumulated things, packing them into boxes for donation and bags for disposal. We spent the afternoon rustling about, remarking on items every here and there; she'd share little details about his life. It's such a personal process, and I am mindful of the trust extended to me — this space and these belongings tell the story of a life, and I have been invited to see.

A decade ago, my manager learned that I knew my way around computers, so she brought in her late husband's Apple, asking me to help find a few things among his files. As I looked around, I discovered his most recent document was a Valentine's Day menu. I shared it with her, and I still remember her pause — she said that he passed suddenly before the holiday, and so she never knew his plans, until I found them five years later. To this day, she carries a love note he had written for her. She read it to me once; it's a poem about growing old together. When she finished, she scrunched her face and called him a liar.

I can often tell when I'm nearing menstruation because I find myself ruminating about mortality. I imagine the people I love dying, and how I will carry on after; I imagine myself dying, and how the people who love me will carry on after. I plan. I think about writing letters. Should I suddenly depart, I want every person I've loved to know how much I appreciated them in life. I imagine the letters' contents in my mind. I check my savings. I want my family to be financially okay after I'm gone.¹ I cry to myself, and when E notices, he'll ask, "Are you thinking about me dying again?" Yes, indeed, I am. It is a strange thing to grieve an imagined loss. When the mood is over, I'm all the more grateful that we are all still here now.