Impressions of Things No Longer Seen
On death and other endings
Hello friends,
Two weeks ago, I posted the final installment of Thirty-One. I wrote something every day for an entire year. Some days, I felt poetic and full of inspiration. Other days, I couldn’t manage more than “I wish I knew the Muffin Man.” There were times when I wanted to quit, when it felt like I was torturing myself for no reason other than I said I would. Occasionally, I became resentful of this thing I voluntarily committed to. When it was over, I felt like I could breathe again. The weight of this project was heavier than I had anticipated, and when I hit publish for the final time, I felt so light that I thought I might float away.
And yet, a missing weight leaves an impression. Like a dent left in a couch cushion upon standing, I can still sense the part of myself that opens up the note in my phone every day to add another entry. I feel that missing practice, and I don’t know what to put in its place. I don’t know if I should put anything in its place. This project was a part of my life for an entire year. Now it’s finished. That door is closed, and I’m left standing in a hallway full of doors, unsure which one to walk through.
Last week was my Geegee’s yahrzeit. Yahrzeit is a Yiddish word that literally translates to “year-time.” It’s used among Ashkenazi Jews to refer to the anniversary of someone’s death. On that day each year, we light a special candle in memory of the deceased that burns for twenty-five hours. We light it after sundown the day before and let it burn all night and the following day until it snuffs itself out. No matter what we do during the day, we can look at the candle and feel like our loved one is with us again.
It’s been seven years since my Geegee died, but I can still feel the impression she left. She was a remarkable woman. She was wise, funny, and kind. She cooked for an army during the holidays, as her generation was wont to do. I always loved eating her leftovers, though. She was a proud Jew, and she taught Hebrew to kids and adults alike. I’m glad she wasn’t here to witness the attack on October 7th or the way the world has treated us in the aftermath. She always made time for people, even when she didn’t necessarily have time to give. She gave me my love of stories, and I always promised her I would dedicate my first book to her. I’m still working on the book, but at least I know what that first page will look like.
Time makes absence easier, not because it hurts less, but because the pain gets further away. Every time we remember something, our brain changes the memory slightly. Memories of pain merge with memories of joy, and they all feel a little less real each time they come to the surface. But I know my Geegee is still here because I am still here. She’s with me when I cook one of her dishes or when I visit a bookstore. She’s with me whenever I respond to something with a Yiddish word and when I cling to the superstitions she passed down. She helped raise me; she’s with me in everything I do. Geegee is gone, but her impression remains clear as day.
Thirty-One forced me to write every day. It was one area of my life where quantity mattered more than quality. I could turn an accidental egg into an odd soliloquy, and it didn’t matter that the words made no sense. Now, I need the words to make sense. Thirty-One is finished, and quantity is no longer enough. I need to write something real. I need to show the rest of the world the impression Geegee left.
WEEKEND POTPOURRI:
Currently on repeat:
How different cultures view vultures says a lot about how they view death.
A poem:
[…] ON SILENCE
By Alejandra Pizarnik
Translated from the original Spanish by Cole Heinowitz…it’s all in some language I don’t know… L. C. (Through the Looking-glass) I feel the world’s pain like a foreign language. Cecilia Meireles They play the part “estranged”. Michaux … SOMEBODY killed SOMETHING. L. Carroll (Through the Looking-glass) I. This little blue doll is my envoy in the world. An orphan in the garden rain where a lilac-colored bird gobbles lilacs and a rose-colored bird gobbles roses. I’m frightened of the grey wolf lurking in the rain. Whatever you see, whatever can be taken away, is unspeakable. Words bolt all doors. I remember rambling through the sycamores … But I can’t stop the drama—gas fills the chambers of my little doll’s heart. I lived the impossible, destroyed by the impossible. Oh, the banality of my evil passions, enslaved by ancient tenderness. II. No one paints in green. Everything is orange. If I am anything, I’m cruelty. Colors streak the silent sky like rotting beasts. Then someone tries to write a poem out of forms, colors, bitterness, lucidity (Hush, alejandra, you’ll frighten the children…) III. The poem is space and it scars. I am not like my little blue doll who still suckles the milk of birds. Memory of your voice in the fatal morning guarded by a sun rebounding in the eyes of turtles. The light of sense goes out remembering your voice before this green celestial mixture, this marriage of sea and sky. And I prepare my death.
"Time makes absence easier, not because it hurts less, but because the pain gets further away." That resonates so much with me. Thank you.