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Every year on July 22, I write to honor George, and I make the writing public. Every year Nova and I do something to remember him, like have grilled cheese and Sapporo beer, or have a special outing, or make art and bike and snuggle and dance. Every year feels beautiful and hard. Every year I am filled with gratitude and dread. There will never be a way to honor him enough. He has reached a place of infinite wonder and oneness and not my words, nor my actions, nor my thoughts, carry the right translation. The only thing that comes close are my tears. And when I look into the eyes of that girl of ours. Last night, on July 21, I sat across from Nova at dinner and thought about the dinner I’d had with George 8 years ago, our last dinner together. We’d gone out for burgers and we’d talked about the work he had left on his plate that night, how it would be a late night, but by this time tomorrow he’d be on paternity leave. This time tomorrow. It was a fantasy. And I wondered how it is that we choose to commemorate the day that someone leaves us instead of the day we last spent with them. I’d rather remember the happy day, the day of innocence and contentment. Maybe it would feel less dreadful. Maybe it would feel more luminous to celebrate his last day on Earth than the one that mysteriously landed him in the ER, with all of the heartache that ensued. This of course is a selfish idea, for George’s experience was vastly different from mine. Perhaps for him, returning to the infinite is all the reason to celebrate. Perhaps what we are honoring is not his life on Earth, but his transcendence. Then I looked at Nova, and said, “8 years ago today was the last day I spent with your dad.” And when I said that, while looking at this beautiful creature of ours, a new truth emerged. “They have been the best 8 years of my life.” She looked at me, and I looked at her, and we smiled a knowing smile. And in that spontaneous moment we glimpsed perfection in our nonconforming little family. There would be no Nova without George, and there would be no George without Nova. It is as though his dying made way for her living. And her living transforms his dying into enormous waves of awe and gratitude, and the physical manifestation of love. She is our love in motion. She is his spirit, animated in space and time. Her life honors him, and it is more than enough. 8 years ago, Nova and I became a team. 8 years ago, George empowered me to become a single mother, gifted Nova the virtues of courage and resilience, and set us out to create something beautiful out of something hard. They have been the most amazing, crushing, inspiring, heartbreaking, heart-opening, transformative years. They have been the best 8 years of my life.   “Tomorrow is a special day”, I say.
“What day is it?” she asks. “It’s the day that George became spirit.” “Oh yeah!” she flashes her big smile at me, and remembers. “July 22. That means it’s my birthday in 9 days.” A fact she will never forget. “It really is a special day,” she declares. “What are we going to do for him?” We begin to list off the possibilities.
Today marks the sixth anniversary of your passing, though it feels strangely similar to the first. Your daughter and me, alone at home, the world around us forever changed. The grief in this sixth year is palpable, encompassing, wrenching -- and for once, it is not about you. You, instead, are the foundation I lean upon when life becomes unsteady. You are the faith I have that everything will be okay.
I won’t bore you with the details. You already know that the coronavirus has all but halted our lives, that my acupuncture practice closed its doors mere weeks after opening, that schools are closed and play dates are cancelled, and we see none of this letting up anytime soon. You know that my mother was diagnosed with stage four sarcoma in May, that we have been caring for her through scans and surgeries and treatments, all the while terrified of exposing her and my dad to this novel virus that has taken over half a million lives. You know that the violence and inequities placed upon our brothers and sisters of color continue to plague us, that a country founded on racist ideology cannot change without a disproportionate amount of suffering, bloodshed, and tears, that the road ahead is marred with adversity. You know that the collective grief in our world at present is more than most of us have ever been asked to endure. You know that we are hitting a tipping point. Something is about to shift. I woke this morning to Nova, climbing into my arms to snuggle, as she does most mornings. Tony stirred soon after, and we lay there, the three of us together, resting contentedly with our arms intertwined.
“Are you awake?” I asked Nova. “Yes, I’m awake,” she replied, her crisp yet delicate five-year old voice slicing through the morning air. I kissed her head, squeezed her a little tighter. One at a time, we rose from the bed. Tony headed downstairs to make breakfast and coffee, as he does most mornings. Nova picked out a dress her daddy might like. “He liked red, didn’t he mama?” “Oh yes, he loved all the colors.” Two years ago today, over 200 of us gathered in Tilden Park to say our goodbyes to George Schnakenberg III, to tell stories of his life and to give thanks for what a vibrant, open-hearted, adventurous and lovable man he was. After watching these speeches, I am amazed once again by the legacy he left behind, and the love, kindness and appreciation that we all felt that day in his honor. I am amazed by my own ability to sit in front of a crowd, 5 days after his death and 4 days before giving birth, and speak with a calm knowing and inner strength that only George could have given me. And, I am so very grateful.
I am grateful for everyone who participated in planning the memorial, from choosing the site and inviting the people to designing the altars and displays, from hooking up sound and giving speeches to bringing food and making grilled cheeses. I am grateful for everyone who showed up, on such short notice, to sit in the heat of the summer so that we could all be together for such a wild and momentous occasion. And I am grateful for all the people who have made me feel loved and held over the last two years, through so many acts of kindness and generosity, too many people to list and too many gifts to name. You have made an indelible impact on my life and I want to say, sincerely, Thank You. I would not have made it here without you. |
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