Yet, I Live.
Nicola visited me in a dream the other night. We were in the woods, and a parliament of owls fluttered around a tree. I stretched out my arm — one silently flew down and perched on my hand. Nicola smiled at me and disappeared.
Nicola passed away on this day in 2021 — I still think about her all the time. Losing a cherished friend is a distinct misery, a warm ache that throbs with grief. But I welcome that sensation. I welcome her memory.
Today is not only the anniversary of her passing, but it’s also the beginning of the Day of the Dead celebration. During this Mexican holiday, families welcome back the souls of their deceased relatives for a brief reunion.
The roots of this tradition go back to the Mesoamerican rituals honoring the deceased. The Indigenous people held a cyclical view of the universe and saw death as essential to life. (Read more about this view of death here.)
Upon dying, one was believed to travel to Chicunamictlán, the Land of the Dead. Only after completing nine challenging levels could the soul finally reach Mictlán, the final resting place.
It was said that when someone passed, their dog was sacrificed to ensure its beloved human made it safely to their destination. Family members often provided food, water and tools to aid the deceased in this arduous journey.
This tradition inspired the contemporary Day of the Dead practice in which people leave food and offerings on their loved ones’ graves or altars in their homes.
I, too, have an altar with treasured keepsakes. Along with pictures of my children, there’s a photo of Nicola and me on the stairs of our college apartment, our arms and legs entwined as if we were one. Beside the photo are carved owls that her daughters, Nora and Lauren, gave me.
I lit a candle this morning and thought about what we would do if she were here. In early times, there was a good chance we would have been raising hell, but in the later years, we went on hikes and walks, finding sanctuary in each other’s company.
Our last hike was to Window Cliffs, outside of Cookeville, Tennessee. It was the autumn of 2020, and my marriage was falling apart. I needed a friend, and as always, Nicola was there for me.
On the hike, we crossed several creeks and climbed a steep ascent to reach the ridge where natural bridges formed “windows.” She’d packed a lunch of cold sandwiches, and we ate them on the boulders bordering the river. We laughed about the plan we hatched in college, the one where we’d move back in with each other when we grew old — which wasn’t that far away.
Of course, that plan was never to be. Nicola developed an aggressive cancer and was gone just a few months after her diagnosis.
Perhaps worse than death is being forgotten. That’s why loneliness and isolation are treacherous places to inhabit. But when we remember someone, when we dedicate our time, thoughts, and words to them, they remain alive.
Today, right now, I am thinking of Nicola. Her lovely laugh forever echoes in my mind, and sometimes, she smiles at me in my dreams.
My radiant friend.
