Losing

I hate to lose things.  A couple of months ago, I lost my favorite purse, a birthday present I'd used every day since October.  Everything usually in it was in my car--the wallet, keys and phone--but the Maraca fabric purse, brown with swirls of gold, was gone.

Of course, I called every place I'd been that day, and no one had seen it.   But a week ago, I went to one of those places, and asked, "Are you sure...?--and there it was, on the hatrack, right next to the register and phone!  To recover a lost thing--well, I was giddy for the rest of the day.

I even hate to lose lesser things.  If I misplace a receipt or a list or an address, I stay awake for a long time looking for it.  Almost always, the next morning, I jolt out of bed knowing right where it is.

Once I lost my car keys at a restaurant (because I had set them on the table instead of putting them in my purse)--and had to wake Jan next door to get a spare key so I could get into my house.  A year later, I went to the library and there they were, in Lost and Found! Some good soul had found them--with my library keychain card attached--and turned them in.

Far worse is losing people.  They move out of your orbit to another town or country.  They lose interest in what you used to do together.  Maybe they want a divorce--or a divorce-equivalent. Maybe they don't like you all that much anymore.

Even if you make room for other people, and even if you come to love the new people just as much, or more, or not quite so much, nobody takes the place of anyone else.  When someone "goes missing"--as they say on the news (much to Betty's annoyance every time she hears that phrase)--it's hard.

When someone we love dies, we still reach for the phone to call sometimes, only to realize all over again that we've lost forever the chance to hear that one particular voice on the other end. (Some rankle at the word, loss, when we're talking about death. Once on TV, I heard a grieving mother say, "Don't tell me you're sorry I lost my son.  I didn't misplace him.  He died.")

On Wednesday, my friend Mary's sister died.  I had only met her once. When she visited our writing group, she brought pretty crocheted scarves for each member of the group. Mary sat beside her sister in hospice for hours playing music and talking, even when it wasn't clear whether or not her sister could hear.

When I mentioned this to another friend, she said, "I can't help but think about my sister and how she has been a part of my life since I was three and a half.  She drives me mad, but I can't imagine life without her."

We can't imagine, but we sort of do--which is why we feel vicarious sorrow. We hardly know what to say. As we write the cards or make the phone calls, we shuffle through all the mental clichés that come to mind: "She's in a better place," or "She's no longer suffering," or "I'm sure she would want you to...."

Language feels paltry at times like these. What, really, can anyone say to someone who will never again hear the voice of that one person who's known her since she was three, or seven, or twenty?  How can words touch a loss that big?


“Here is one of the worst things about having someone you love die: It happens again every single morning.”
― Anna Quindlen, Every Last One