Five Years On

On missing my dead friend, collecting objects, and memory

This week was the five-year anniversary of my dear friend Annie’s death.

I know I often write about death and grief, about how sorrow lingers in doorways. That has felt never more true than this year. This year I have been upended by longing, wrecked with loneliness, and hounded by memory. At times, these moments make me feel as though I’ve been chased down in the street, caught by the arm, and handed a stack of sorrows like I left them behind on a bus.

Oh yes, I think. There you are, and I tuck them under my arm for safekeeping.

Annie, my favorite ghost.

This year on the Annie-versary (haha, boo) I tried to do things that felt good in my body. I’ve rarely given myself that type of care in years past. It’s holiday season, after all, and the festivities tend to barge in with all their demands. Buy gifts. Make cookies. Dress up. Show up. Chat up. Stay up. Finish up. Quickly, quickly—before you miss it.

Most years, my tender little heart gets shelved until there’s a spare moment to let it crack open—a big weeping, ugly wound to dress and pack away for another year.

But this year, grief has crept up on me in the strangest ways. I found I could not outrun it.

A few weeks ago I found myself wishing I could hear Annie’s voice again, could see her talk and move and be alive in some small way. I went back to my old marco polos with her and found that they were all gone—every single one swept away by some vicious technological glitch.

It all felt too bitter, too hard. I couldn’t even cry.

Then, just two days before the anniversary of her death, I found myself weeping at my desk during my lunch break. I wanted to sob out loud, wanted to trash the room with rage, to throw every useless object through the huge picture window that looks out over the lonely parking lot. I could almost hear the tinkling of glass, watch the crumpling of car hoods.

Instead I stewed and wept and drank bitter tea that had gone cold at my desk. I had to quickly hide my face when a pack of students burst in without knocking, looking for some backpack or drawing or book they’d left behind. I pretended to sort papers and did not turn around to greet them.

As the day itself approached, I knew I needed gentleness and privacy—and definitely no students at my elbows. Because I never miss work, I have heaps of PTO, so I took the day off and let it unfold around me—an unusual pause in the business of so much accumulated life.

In the morning I found myself at the gym with Jon. (Praise, praise, praise for the gym.) It felt good to move the grief through my body, to thin it out so it didn’t collect in the heavy hollow of my chest. I turned up the Rolling Stones in my ears and lifted until my legs gave out. I also saw my dear friend Tanei there, and I nearly cried at how soft it felt to see her and talk to her and know that she is not dead or dying.

Such thoughts.

After a warming lunch of Japanese oyakadon with Jon, I made my way uptown for a massage that I’d managed to schedule at the last minute. I knew I needed some tangible gesture of care towards myself on the day—something to point to. See? I’m taking care of myself. See, see?

So. A massage.

The massage therapist was sweet-eyed and young, and she kept saying “of course, of course” whenever I answered a question.

Do you want me to find a hair tie to keep your hair back? Yes, I said. Of course, of course, she said.

Is there anywhere that’s particularly tense in your body today? she said. Neck. Shoulders. Back, I said. Of course, of course, she said.

How have you been sleeping lately? she said.

I’m not sleeping, I said.

Of course, of course.

During the session, I told her to keep putting pressure—more and more—as though she could wring the ache and longing from my limbs with her knuckles and thumbs, the bony length of her forearm, the needling point of her elbow.

I can’t tell if my body craves gentleness or intensity these days. Sometimes it feels like it wants both, one after the other—first, to feel so much physical pressure that my heart numbs. And then, to feel such softness that all my heartache throbs in the center, working its way out like a splinter.

Afraid to ask for gentleness, I went with intensity.

The massage left me buzzy and sloppy-jointed, and stumbling out into the sunlight I didn’t know quite what to do next.

After a little aimless driving I found myself at a favorite shop of mine that lives inside an old Victorian house. It’s full of plants and antiques, and it felt good to creep through its crooked rooms and handle things gently, turning so many objects over and over in my hands—a museum of unknown memories.

The plants, a blue porcelain collection (which I love and collect, but do not need more of), a skeleton, a mug collection (which I also collect. and always want more of), the nicest baby owls, a very concerned Jesus, and me.

I wondered if anything wanted to come home with me, but nothing did. Often, I’ll walk into an antique shop with a little chip in my heart, an expectation to find some lonely object to carry home and arrange on my shelves.

But this time, I realized I just wanted to look and touch and then softly retreat. I wanted simply to be a quiet visitor amongst so much history.

Something in me wants this care from people in my life—for them to creep gently around my sorrows, handling my memories and heartaches with tenderness, and then to slip away quietly without disturbing the arrangement of things. I don’t need someone to displace or remove the sorrows from me—just to notice them, dust them off, and hand them back to me carefully.

Lately, I feel like I’m hounding the world for tenderness—like I have a great, blinking, OPEN sign hung above my door: an invitation for all the soft and quiet critters to come inside and make their homes. I tend to think that I have so many lovely objects collected inside my many rooms, so it should be easy enough to keep the doors open.

And yet, despite the conviction of my own loveliness, I hesitate with new and old relationships alike. I watch myself stew and fret like a nervous poodle. All I can do is laugh and shake and breathe through it. My house and all its many rooms are ready! Why am I both so eager and so tetchy about receiving visitors?

some of the little things I’ve collected

The night of the anniversary itself I planned to sit up talking with Annie’s old friends, to eat six different kinds of cheese and sip hot soup from handmade bowls. But something in me hesitated. I don’t know if it’s the absence of my old friend that makes these gatherings difficult, or if its the way that grief has reshuffled our friendships like a game of musical chairs, leaving so few seats where there used to be plenty.

Or maybe it’s just age and time and the stickiness of missing someone so wonderful.

For whatever reason, I hesitated.

In my hesitation, I saw a book on a shelf and made an excuse to drop it off at a friend’s house. He took me in and gave me a tour—we’re still new friends, so I’d never actually been inside. I met his cats and he walked me through his tidy, well-lit rooms. I admired his books and the artful arrangement of sentimental objects on his shelves. I asked for the stories behind each little thing, then picked them up one by one and held them in my hands like pearls.

It’s so very precious, this life. We wander through it collecting sorrows, objects, friendships, loves, heartaches, hard-won lessons, bitter truths, and the ten thousand delights that leave us breathless with longing over and over. I’m charmed and broken by this world each day I’m in it.

When will it pause long enough for me to catch my breath?

When will it truly begin?

When will it end?

Eventually I did make it to the gathering with old friends, confronting my ghosts and blasting Rolling Stones again in the car ride down. We lit candles. We sat up together. We cried, we ate, we laughed and remembered our friend for hours. We made enough noise to wake up even the sleepiest of the dead.

I hope she was there, amongst the rest.

I know that many of you come to this letter looking for something—for comics, for history, for literature, for laughs, for stories, maybe even for solace. I feel so ill-equipped to give those things, but I hope that my imperfect parcels do arrive in time to offer some comfort during those cheerless, lonely nights that we all are heir to.

Winter can be especially cold, and we each need a hand to hold in the dark. May you find the ones that refuse to let go.

As for me, this world has felt far too sharp lately. I don’t know what it’s asking of me, but I keep trying to show up with courage pinned to my chest.

I honestly don’t know if it’s working.

I hope it is.

Yours in guttering candlelight,

🕯️Becca Lee, Haunted Librarian🕯️