It’s 11 AM and I’m tearing up over Stevie Wonder’s “As” and Charley Crockett’s “Time of the Cottonwood Trees.” These are songs I had not heard before, nor had a previous emotional attachment. The New York Times did a series on how artists and readers managed their grief. I soaked up every bit of this short article. People shared touching stories of how songs, movies, artists, or books, some unexpected, have become profound fixtures in their lives to remember their person by. I think the sharing of this is an extremely vulnerable act, which made this article all the more moving. Now I know that “As” makes someone think of their vibrant mother. “Time of the Cottonwood Trees” makes someone else think of their loving wife.
In the same morning, my dear friend shared a post about celebrating his deceased brother’s birthday. He quoted Ocean Vuong’s line, “I miss you more than I remember you,” reminding me that I, too, spend more time missing than actively remembering. All of this inspired me to write (for the first time in a bit) about what makes me remember.
Other than travel, music is, by far, one of the strongest ways for me to conjure up memories in general, but especially of Emily. Of all of the values my parents could instill, I think having a good, if not mildly pompous, taste in music was one that profoundly shaped all of us kids. We grew up listening to the greats and classics– Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, Neil Young, Etta James, the Stones, and above all else, The Grateful Dead. To this day, my thumb could reflexively find on my mom’s iPod a 1973 version of “Eyes of the World,” live in Chicago.
For many years my family took annual vacations to Negril, Jamaica. My parents are creatures of habit, so we went to the same hotel each year, slowly but surely building up a community of friends that remain important pillars of our lives, even today. Emily and my mom were particularly grabbed by the country, adoring the clear, blue waters, the incredible food, and the friendly disposition of those that literally and figuratively opened their homes to us. The hotel we stayed at catered to tourists, with nightly entertainment of dancing and jokes, all of which invited guests to get involved. Emily was often the only one brave enough of us to participate, almost especially if it involved dancing. Reggae music, particularly Marley, makes me think fondly of these vacations, and of Emily on a stage under a million colorful spotlights dancing, playing, and laughing.
One year, for Christmas, she gifted me concert tickets for us to see The Head and The Heart at the Chicago Theater, one of my favorite bands at the time. Between ooh’s and ahh’s, we eyed a cute usher. Emily marched right up to him with the same candor as if she was going to ask him the time, and asked for his number. He indeed had a girlfriend, but was flattered, and Emily was unphased. Embarrassed as I was by the entire ordeal, I was more impressed by Emily's unwavering ability to toss her hair back and drink up life as it came to her. Her bravery has always been what I admired about her the most.
When Emily was hospitalized in a coma, a physician colleague recommended that we make her a playlist, ensuring us that she would likely hear and be comforted by it. So we did. It’s a short compilation from myself and a few close friends of songs that remind us of Emily. We’ll never know for sure, but this could have been one of the many things that rescued her from her coma. There’s an undeniable power behind music.
The very last time I ever spoke to Emily was over Facetime on June 3, 2021 to tell our family that Kimmy, our other sister, just officiated Nick and I’s marriage over vegan enchiladas in our tiny Pilsen apartment. It was just a legal formality to start the visa process for me to join Nick in Italy, but felt important nonetheless to tell everyone that we were, by law, married, and to assure them that a real celebration was to come. Emily excitedly asked if she’d be a bridesmaid for our wedding. She died 6 days later.
She was still a bridesmaid. She had her very own bouquet and all. Despite the great care we took in including small details into our wedding that honored family that are no longer with us, I was almost sick with fear about the day of. It’s one thing to detach yourself from a loss when you’re buried in logistics and details, it’s another when it’s time to experience that loss in an unthinkable, new way. To me, going through our wedding day without Emily was just another metaphorical nail in the coffin; another thing to keep someone from coming to us saying that they made one big, silly mistake, and Emily would pop out from behind a corner with Ashton Kutcher and shout “punked!”
The last song of the night was Bob Marley’s “Is this love,” and was also the point at which I crumbled. I had been avoiding the weight of loss all day and finally gave in. I threw my hair back and drank up all that life was giving me– a loving husband; an unforgettable, perfectly executed wedding day; the gift of profound loss and remembering; the embrace of everyone I love so much in the world. She wasn’t there in the way that I wanted her to be, but she was there in the way that I needed her to be.
I still cry when I hear “Is this love,” and probably always will. I haven’t really touched the playlist since we first made it. Missing is inevitable and unavoidable, but remembering takes bravery. I’m reminded of an excerpt from poet Andrea Gibson’s “Royal Heart”:
Call in your royal heart
Tell it bravery cannot be measured by a lack of fear
It takes guts to tremble
It takes so much tremble to love
So may we tremble, may we remember.
What makes you remember your person, place, thing, animal? I would love to know and remember with you.
I wish I could learn your complexity and depth through the blog on some other topic, I always wish this painful outcome was not yours and Emily's story. But I'm still glad I have a chance to get to know you more through your writing.