It's hard to admit that there are things that have materialized in the wake of Evelyn's death that I am grateful for. It's hard to admit to gratitude at all. It's as if I am afraid there is a cosmic listener, some higher power that will take my confession as consent. And I want to be clear—I have never, will never, consent to the death of my daughter. Who so deserved to live. Who was entitled to all her years. Who had so much left to give the world that we so desperately need.
But...the fact remains, gratitude is there. Though it has taken me time to learn how to acknowledge it again. First, in very small ways. Gratitude that I could get out of bed. That my two surviving children lived through another night. That something made me laugh. That beauty presented itself. And later, in larger, more consistent ways. Gratitude that she lived at all. That I got to love her, got to hold her. That our hearts cannot be unwound.
I think, however, that the thing I am most grateful for after losing Evelyn, are the women in the fog. You see, I have been wandering a strange land for three plus years now. Long enough to know that I will never return to the place of my birth—the place where we lived together, as a family, whole and uncomplicated. I live here now, in the aftermath and the hills and the mists. I have both more and less here than I did before, and that's just how it is. And while this place is mostly solitary, it is not unpopulated. Sadly, it is not unpopulated.
There are women here. Other women who are rimming the cavities left behind, bending over deep wells to drop stones, standing at the mouth of dark caves to call a name or whisper the secrets they cannot tell the living. Sometimes, without expectation or warning, our paths cross. A wail sounds from the murk, and there she is. I recognize her by the things we have in common, our shared reflections. We can stand for hours just pointing at old scars, the places where flesh refuses to close over what cannot ever heal, where the bleeding refuses to cease, where growth has occurred despite all signs to the contrary. Or, we may just pass a smile, a nod of the head, a glimmer of greeting before moving on, each in their own direction, back into the gloom.
These meetings are a comfort to me. I know I cannot share this path with anyone but Evelyn—her ghost beside me always. But even so, to intersect with something, someone recognizable in this unfamiliar place that I call home, to know that I am not the only traveler here... That is a little gift in the monotony, a bit of light in a world shrouded in grief, a deep breath where the air is thin.
Sometimes, even without seeing them, I feel their bodies moving, hear the heavy footfall of their journey, feel the presence of their ghost companions—the names they never stop speaking. We do this for each other, when we can. We say the names we know others have forgotten how to say, or have lost the courage to. To hear Evelyn's name on someone else's lips—in that second she gains substance at my side. I can almost touch her. It's never enough, of course. But it is something. And something in a land full of a lot of nothing is remarkable.
There are no straight roads here. And the view is rarely clear enough to know your position. A compass is about as useful as a bent arrow. What I've learned in three years is that there is no destination. The point, I think, is to keep moving. It doesn't really matter how or in what direction. Because you're not going anywhere anyway. You're simply drifting. It's not the same as being lost. I know exactly where I am at any given moment. I just have no context for it. Because there's no way to see where I am going or to track where I have been. Everything is vapor here. The only rule seems to be that you cannot hold on. Holding on to anything or anyone is forbidden.
I'm not even sure it's so different from where I was before. I think the difference is in the knowing. Where I am. What the rules are. How alone I truly must be.
There are men in the fog too. With rare exception, they pause less often. Have less to say. They try to cover their wounds, the only thing we are allowed to keep in this place. They can often be seen looking for their trajectory, trying to make the roads plumb. I leave them be. They'll figure it out in time. The ones who already have make excellent teachers. They know the secret is not in fixing a land characterized by brokenness, but in finding merit in the damage. They know the deepest cracks hide the most value. They'll point you to them if you stop and ask.
It's Christmas tomorrow and I'm supposed to feel jolly and merry and all manner of glad and happy ways. And in part, I do. The other part... Well, let's just say she's holding our place in the fog. Staring into a black pool, watching the water ripple, hoping to catch a glimpse of Evelyn in our reflection. She knows where she is. And she knows where she is not. Even if she cannot know where she is going or where she has been. She is waiting for the next woman to come along and stand beside her in the dark. To whisper a name so that she may echo it back. To squeeze her hand before drifting away. That is the only gift this place affords. And it is one I will never stop being grateful for.
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