So I went to Los Angeles (saw a friend I hadnāt seen since the 90s, when we both had very different hair!) and I went to Mexico (dived with seals and sea turtles and ate a lot of huevos divorciados!) and then I came back to New Zealand (sat on a plane for many hours but itās okay because I took a Benadryl!) and now I am home.
I am home, sitting on my couch, looking at all the boxes I have yet to unpack from storage, thinking I should really get up and get dinner started. I am home, boiling water for tea in my very own electric kettle. I am home, getting blown around the Wellington streets yet still having to remember to put on extra sunscreen after several months. I am home, seeing all the friends I so desperately wanted to see, going to lunch and brunch and dinner and tea, texting to sort out whoās going to drinks and to the outdoor concert and to the movies and to the park.
And everyone is so good to meāthey let me Talk About It or Not Talk About it, as I choose, and everyone listens so well and no one says anything awful and I look at them over the tea mugs or the cafĆ© table and wonder what I did to know such good people, here and on the other side of the world: what did I do to get to be around the best people at the worst time?
But still. Still, I think about her. I think about things I donāt necessarily want to remember: helping her eat and how after a while she didnāt open her eyes anymore even to chew. I think about putting in the BBC Planet Earth DVDs one more time even though she couldnāt follow them very well. I think about her last breaths, her last breath, and how I didnāt know what I was seeing and so did not get into bed with her to hold her until it was all over, until it was too late.
She came to visit me here, twiceāthe second time she stayed in my tiny alcove āguest roomā here in my flat. She walked down to my dairy, where later we filmed the Winter Boyfriend video, and she sat with me right here on this couch where I am sitting now and helped me alter a t-shirt with orange embroidery floss.
She doesnāt belong here, though, in the same way her belonged on the island, and so itās easy to not think about it, if I donāt want to, for a while. (We did go to Fidelās, we did go to the Hop Garden. We did goādidnāt we?āto the Botanical Gardens, on the cable car). Iāve been able to go about my days without being reminded of her at every turn. Iāve been able to come home, and Iāve been able to say, finally: I will stay home.
Iām home, but where is she? I canāt find her. It hurts if I think about her and hurts worse if I donāt, so what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to talk to her? How are we supposed to, for lack of a better phrase, stay in touch?
One of the boxes I used to pack up my books to put in storage while I was away obviously had come from her at some pointāthere was a Customs label on it from 2010. It was so strange to see her handwriting and to think that in 2010 she was sending me packages, that she was writing on a cardboard box and taking it to the post office and all those ordinary things. I cut out the bit with her return address on it but I havenāt decided what to do with it. Itās on the bookshelf at the moment, imprinted with her name, the weight of her hand as she pressed down on the pen.
And today I was going through the contacts on my old phone because they refused to import to the new, and her cell number was still there. I donāt know why I didnāt delete it back in April or something. I am so stupid sometimes: I texted her, even though her numberās been disconnected and the old phone doesnāt work anymore anyway. āI miss you so much,ā I tapped outābecause I do, I do–and the phone replied, āService interruptedā¦will continue sending until message is sent.ā
Comments
6 responses to “Will Continue Sending”
You write beautifully of some of the tiny details of grief that are so familiar – those little things we keep close to our hearts. I still get the suggestion sometimes from LinkedIn that I should connect with my dad since we know people in common. And their phone number remains in my contacts list. Itās a jolt each time, but a comforting one. Keep on muddling through; it will get less painful imperceptibly slowly.
So much unavoidable truth.
Giant squishy hugs to you.
She got the text. I am sure. I love you.
keep on sending, Chiara, she must be listen, she is in every single cell of you.
Love to have you back.
Oh Chiara Chiara Chiara. I’m happy you made it home safely, and I send lots and lots of hugs. <3