One of my friends died a few days ago. She didn’t want a memorial or funeral or anything like that. She didn’t want you to feel concerned. She didn’t like attention. So I’m not going to write who.
The last thing we talked about was her husband. She’d sent me a Co-Star screenshot, a crying laughing emoji. “Damn Virgo sun Taurus moon!” She loved him, purely. So much. All the time.
We were planning to go to the Cleveland Poetry Festival. Joyelle McSweeney would be there. We were both fans.
She was the type of person who was always there for you, when you felt more alone than you knew what to do with. Cancer sun, like my son.
Open arms.
She read more books in a calendar year than anyone I’ve ever met. Without making a big deal about it.
The last time we talked was earlier this month. She said something about rehab. I asked what was wrong. She didn’t answer. A few days later, she changed the subject. I thought she meant drug rehab. The type you usually make it out of.
The type I’m used to.
I didn’t know how sick she was.
Physically. Genetically.
No one knew how sick she was.
The last time I had a friend die, it was an overdose. Then it was a suicide. Another time, it was a mixture of both. Point is, they all had something to do with it. No one was just wiped off the earth at 34 years old. Because it was coded in their DNA.
My husband is in the kitchen doing dishes. Working from home. My son is home too, sick, and I have what he has, and the dogs are here too, howling. We’re all here. Having the type of day that would normally give me hives. Because I have to work and I need time alone and I have deadlines and emails and I have to teach class and you know what, it doesn’t matter.
Her husband gets 3 days of bereavement. Just three. Then he has to figure out how to be a person again.
Unless you’ve lived it, you can’t imagine.
I can’t.
No pictures, no Instagram posts, no performative mourning. She would have hated it. It’s funny because before her husband even told me, that she didn’t want any kind of service or memorial or celebration, I had a feeling I shouldn’t post anything. It’s not like she can see it anyway. Posting is for the person posting. Pulled to communicate, to say something, say anything, when something happens there are no words for.
To have it witnessed, that void.
She wanted to work on her writing. We were going to work on it, to set a schedule. She had so much, unpublished. She was self-conscious about it, the way serious readers are. Like she wasn’t good enough. Like she couldn’t hold a candle to everything that lined her shelves.
She had so much natural talent.
I’ve been afraid of losing my husband so many times. For any of the known reasons. Overdose. Fentanyl. Despair. Walking in the door to find his body abandoned, soul gone. My worst fears. I never considered that he could just up and die, for no reason under the sun.
That that can happen.
That it does happen.
Her body’s ticking clock.
The way it decided, in its cells, time’s up. Fuck your husband. Fuck your dog. Your dreams. Your plans. Your TBR pile.
Fuck your birthday.
Usually there’s something on my end. Something I feel guilty about. An unanswered text. A missed call. Something I’d missed, neglected. It makes me wonder. What if I’d picked up in time. What if I called more often, texted back sooner. Shown up on their doorstep, anything. Would it have changed anything. If I had known.
If I’d known she was dying, what would I have done? Cried more?
Of course she was too smart for that. Too empathetic. She didn’t want anyone to think about it early. About this part of life, of love. How much we miss people before they’re gone. How everything matters. How we don’t get anyone for keeps.
Beautiful, Mila. 💛
🖤