For Eddie

Today, I wish I could give out hugs with the ease that I can give out ‘likes’ and upvotes. I wish I could flood my words with such presence that they would become a warm body next to you in the room. Today, with my own body feeling relatively strong and able, I wish I could shoulder some of the pain of the thousands and thousands who feel flattened by grief.

My cousin Eddie died of Covid this week. He was a 6’8” prison warden with four kids, a wry sense of humor, and a kind heart. Our dads—though brothers—aren’t close, and we’ve usually lived on opposite sides of the country, so I’ve actually only met Eddie once in person. I was a toddler at the time, barely talking. A few years ago, Eddie sent me a Facebook message, complimenting me on the explosive growth in my vocabulary since our one in-person encounter, and I’ve enjoyed watching his life from afar ever since.

I ache for Eddie’s parents, his siblings, his wife, his kids, and his many friends. I ache for the millions of others who have lost loved ones in this pandemic.

Today, I feel keenly how lucky I am to be alive. I have more time to reach out to family, neighbors, friends, and enemies. I have more time to marvel at the way raindrops bead on the bare branches of my silver maple. I have more time to learn from my mistakes, tickle my kids, and play the piano with an excess of exuberance and a deficit of skill. I have more time to learn how to bring compassion, humor, and grace into the world. I am determined to use this time.

Today, I will not add more anger to our broken world. I will forgive an old grievance. I will reach out to an old friend. I will let the grief in because sometimes that is what love requires, but I will also tilt my face upwards to the rain and smile at the clouds, because life is finite and shouldn’t be mistaken for a funeral march.

Today, instead of tallying my symptoms, I’ll marvel at the life force that pulses through me—at all that is still possible in this long-hauling body.

Thank you, just for today, for making room for this melancholier reflection. I hope you feel how grateful I am to share this space with you—to hold space together for our griefs, our joys, our progress, and our pain.

Is there something that you are holding alone that we can help you carry?