I once watched someone I love write letters to the dying, knowing they would go unread. I felt the need to avert my eyes, to ask about the dinner on the stove. I told myself it was a private grief. I told myself it was not my heartbreak to meddle in. I told myself the best thing I can do is distract us from this situation. The truth was less flattering: I was afraid to look at anguish.
I know I was not the support I should have been at that time. I was young and terrified of loss, but so were they. I did not know what to say, but I could have tried. “I see you,” would have been a fine start. I have forgiven myself, recognizing that I was doing what I could at that time, but I will never ford the regret.
Many years have passed since I sat in that room and bore witness to those letters, but I think of that moment often. It was the first time I saw that sometimes we write to survive. I had studied literature my entire life, had written thousands of pages, but had always considered language a performance of experience. I did not know it could also be a muted wail, as unmediated as drawing the hand back from the hot stove.
I was running on the C&O Tow Path last week, and the letters came to me, out of the blue and, frankly, uninvited. There had been a terrible storm a few days prior, and I was dodging tree limbs and detritus, and the letters clamored for my attention, too. After ineffectually darting out of their reach for a half-mile, I let them wash over me. I reminded myself that grief is a version of love. That those letters were a primordial cry and also a sign of endurance: smoke signals floating toward the celestial.
Post-Scripts.
+This essay was difficult for me to write. I still have trouble looking directly at these memories, and confronting them in language. This is, candidly, a first attempt. I had to remind myself to shake hands with the blank page.
+On writing about the people we have lost.
+Our lives become mosaics of the people we love.
Shopping Break.
+Mary Orton had the BEST tip — if you like to listen to podcasts/audiobooks in the shower, you need to try these waterproof airpods. She mentioned that she’s tried all of the waterproof speakers but you invariably cannot hear while actively running your hair under water. In my cart, as I often want to listen to audiobooks/podcasts while showering — such a luxury!
+Wearing this dress to my 13 year (!) wedding anniversary this Thursday.
+If you have a little love obsessed with her dollbaby, this carrier is sweet. My daughter has a doll carrier just like this that she loves carrying her Bitty Baby around in.
+This $170 console table is SO good. I am so tempted to order it for my office!
+Have a few of these striped LS polos in my cart for my son’s fall wardrobe.
+Obsessed with this side table.
+This Mango dress is SO chic and saucy! Looks like something SEA would put out.
+These chic colorblocked sneaks are waterproof! Brilliant for those of you living in rainier climates.
+Obsessing over this fleece.
+This denim midi skirt reminds me a lot of the silhouette/details on the SLVRLAKE one, but is $59.
+A classy, classic boot.
+New Balances in great colors. Love that petal pink.
+Into these hyacinth desk accessories: organizer, letter trays, and boxes.
Your writing is always lovely, but this grappling with the magnitude of grief and the feeling of ineptitude in the face of it–you just got it all exactly right. I think for some of us in deep grief, writing is also a way of wresting control when everything is going up in smoke. Thank you for sharing this!
Thank you so much, and yes — you nailed it by highlighting the friction between ineptitude / magnitude of the situation. Thanks for letting me know this resonated.
xx