#26 Time, and Your Memory

May 12, 2025 | Washington, D.C.

My friend’s name was Leigha. Pronounced Lee-uh. If you’re reading this, it’s important that you get it right because, you see, she isn’t here anymore to correct you. That task has been left to those of us who knew her, who loved her.

And Leigha, I cannot begin to express how deeply I loved you.

Last night I laid in bed and thought about you, as I do every night before I drift off to sleep. I rolled to my side and felt the cold of the pillow next to me, where your head rested just two months ago when you came to visit me in D.C. for my birthday. With the back injuries you had sustained from that terrible accident over a year ago, we decided it was best that you forego the air mattress for my bed. I laugh bitterly now when I remember how annoyed I was that first night when you – already fast asleep – wrapped yourself up in the down blanket, leaving me exposed to the February cold. In the morning, I made a little joke about the encounter, a little passive aggressively, and your eyes widened in apology, and any crossness I’d felt the night before evaporated in an instant. I have never been proud of how quickly I can become frustrated with those around me, but you met it with a patience and love that I had never felt in anybody else. You knew all of me and you accepted me. The next night, when you reached over to adjust the sheets so that they covered us both, I stopped you. “Take it, I brought a second blanket.”

Four days after you died, I dragged myself out of the house to attend the birthday party of a friend, fighting back tears as I applied mascara, trying desperately not to crumble. During my conversations, I listened and laughed and made my witty remarks. You would have appreciated my plays on words. You were as much of a writer as I was, though you always downplayed your own brilliance. Still, I felt your absence. In Armenia, we attended most parties together. We brought out the best in each other when we spoke with friends and strangers alike. You were both a springboard for my thoughts and ideas and a comforting presence to lean on when I felt insecure. A support. When it came time to sing happy birthday at the party, I tried once again, desperately, not to crumble. What a joyful celebration of life. I excused myself to the bathroom so that I could let myself crumble just a little. I cried into the sink for a minute, and let myself out once more. I stayed late, and called a cab, the water already leaking from my eyes, the dam ready to give way. When I got home and closed the door behind me, I let myself crumble. I sobbed then, a real proper sob. I changed out of my clothes, out of the trousers that had once been yours, that you’d given to me just a few years ago. I dug out the birthday card you had written me back in February and forced myself to read the entire thing to the end, where you lied and said that you would be with me always.

Last night as I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, I was struck by the realization that I couldn’t feel you anywhere. Where are you? Where is your soul? People say that the loved ones we’ve lost watch over us, that their presence lingers. People claim to feel their spirit in the sunshine or a cool breeze or an open sky. People say a lot of bullshit. I can’t feel you, Leigha, and it makes me angry and it makes me scared and above all else, it makes me so incredibly sad. I can’t feel your presence anywhere.

But your memory, yes, everywhere. I think of you when I look at that book you gave me of film posters from the pre-Stalin Soviet Union. I see you in my photo collections, documenting years spent beside you in Armenia, documenting our trips, my time visiting you in recovery in Washington state, our photos together from that day trip we took up to Canada. In the songs we recommended to one another, in the podcast episodes we exchanged. I remembered Circe today, the book you insisted I read. Every day, a thought comes to me that I wish I could share with you, whether it be an anecdote or a complaint or a small revelation.

You’re with me; that’s what they say. Those we’ve lost are never truly lost because we bring them with us. But I feel that I’m carting a memory. My brain still cannot make sense of your passing. It seems you must still be in Washington, in Bellingham. Maybe you’re taking a break from your phone. Maybe it’s simply a matter of sending a message. If I did send a message, you would answer. I can pretend it. So the days pass and I don’t send any messages because so long as I don’t, I can keep pretending. Meanwhile, your name falls further down the list of contacts, as the other conversations rush to fill the space that you left, as if they ever could. You may fall down the list, but your memory stays top of mind. The oil that floats atop the water.

You stay with me, yes. But you don’t get to be you anymore, and that is the greatest tragedy. That is what people seem to miss when they try to comfort. You, who held such a singular presence, you who approached the world with such kindness and curiosity, you who loved your agency and cherished your independence, you who had more life to live, you don’t get to live. Knowing who you were and what you valued, that is the saddest part, and I think you’d agree. That from this day on, you cannot experience. You can only be experienced.

You died, Leigha, and it feels unfair both to your life and to mine that I should keep living. Yours was robbed. Mine feels undeserved. Both in the moments of joy I still get to feel and in the terrible grief that your passing has brought. And it is no consolation to bring your memory forward with me. Though I will do it a thousand times, in every second of every day – invoke your name and bring you with me. Weave your essence into every conversation, call you back to life for a brief moment. So, against the stubbornness of my heart, I move forward. The days pass and the Earth spins and time comes to fill the spaces around me. Time, and your memory.

If you’d like to go back and read my past musings and meltdowns, hit this link

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