Compost Studios

Wordgirl wrote recently about attending the funeral of a friend and listening to eulogies prepared by her friend’s siblings and parents that in no way resembled the person she and her husband had known. The service was religious and evangelical even though her friend had not been that way.

This “false remembrance” and celebration of a life her friend didn’t lead only made his unexpected death that much harder to bear. Clearly the service was all about what his family had wished he’d been and not the person he was.

By Wordgirl’s account, there was nothing to be ashamed of in the way this man lived his life, so why not honor it for what it was? Why plan a funeral where the religious convictions of a few of the survivors overshadow memories of the deceased? The disconnect between the two versions of reality might have been funny if it hadn't been so sad.

Her post got me thinking about remembrances.

When I was moving, I was forced to confront how much space my collection of old letters consumed. I had saved every personal letter I’d ever gotten. Being a writer, I treasured people’s words and stories, and I cherished the relationships the letters represented. Neatly organized by year into shoe boxes, my collection of letters was HUGE. Part of me felt I needed to let go of them and yet at times the very thought made my stomach clench with regret.

I soon realized it didn’t have to be an all or nothing proposition. I could easily toss letters from people who no longer occupied a place in my life. I could save letters from family members, part of my family history, and save selected letters from old friends. In the process of going through all those old papers, I retraced the history we’d shared. High school angst, dating ups and downs, college adventures, good and bad jobs, married life and compromise, career moves, graduate degrees, homeownership, the pain of infertility, the joy and confusion of parenting, the challenges of family relationships—we’d gone through it all together.

In one box I came across a funny note from a college friend who had jokingly written at the bottom, “Save this forever so you will always remember US.” I’d saved it even though we’d lost touch over the years. My friend died in a plane crash when I was 33. I wanted to go to the funeral but ended up going into labor with my first child instead. I cried all over again when I remembered US, yet I was happy to have a bit of the silly correspondence that characterized our relationship to bring it back to life.

When I went away to college, my mom wrote to me 2-3 times a week. When I got married and moved to Oklahoma, I still regularly got weekly letters from her. I saved every one. Thank God. Her letters help me remember her as she really was, her handwriting and narrative voice as well as the details of home life that she shared with me preserve so much more than memories. They define our relationship. I can say the same about the letters from my sister, Louise, who died when I was 20.

While our love for a person may never diminish, the strength of our memories erodes over our time. Our vivid recollections of good times dull. Our sense of our loved one’s personality fades.

One of the reasons I continue blogging is to both share and preserve my narrative voice, especially for my kids. When I’m gone, my friends and family will have my own words as a legacy to remember how funny, pensive, neurotic, sensitive, happy, and introspective I was. As Emily Dickinson wrote about her poems, “This is my letter to the world.”

So if anyone stands up at my funeral and tries to paint a glossy picture of a woman I was not, y’all will be able to quote from the Book of V-Grrrl and put them in their place. Blog on, people. Write your own story, one day at a time. Set the world straight on the meaning of your life.

June 21, 2006