I think of nodal events as the ones that you’d mark on the timeline of your life. In my high school writer’s workshop, with the best teacher in the school, maybe on the planet, we had to annotate a timeline of our own life. It’s silly to think about that assignment now, because I was seventeen years old, so what could I even include? What felt important to me at the time? Defining the narrative of my life? It would have been something to draw a timeline not only of my past but into my future. Maybe I’ll do that now.
What would you mark on the timeline of your life? I think of nodal events as The Big Ones: a birth, a wedding, a funeral. I’ve experienced all three in my life in these two weeks.
The wedding reminds me of the intimacy I share with the people who lived with Andrew in the flexed two-bedroom on the Upper West Side. I say “reminds me” because I’d forgotten about it. I’m curious about how I’m drawn to this closeness, about the warmth that channels through me, the literal glow that I feel when I remember the time we spent together gossiping through the wall and brushing our teeth and watching hours of Jeopardy. Their vows are personal and make me feel included. This is a love story, but it is the story of two lives. In this story, I see myself in the anecdotes and squeeze Andrew’s hand as I remember my own version of our shared histories.
There is a finality in death that I find unpleasant. None of us will live forever, and a long, healthy life surrounded by loved ones is maybe a best case scenario. But I’ve never been a fan of goodbyes. Funerals are a form of goodbye, really only for those of us who are still around. I appreciate the gathering in times of grief, the collective mass showing up to try to make up for absence we all feel but don’t like to acknowledge. Stacks of photos stick together, folded corners and fingerprints. Stories: when was this taken? who is she standing with? where is this house? Memories bring our loved ones back to us, in the room. Laughter punctuates tears. There is way too much food.
Birth and death. A balancing act. I wonder if they always show up as a pair.
Each day, I cherish the birth of my child. I mean, not my child exactly, but the first-born child of my lifelong best friend. For months, I’d been anticipating this massive shift. A breakpoint in my life. A time when we’d look back and point — there, that’s when everything changed. I notice the timestamps on her text messages as she cares for a newborn at all hours. I spill over with emotions all of the time. I marvel at how I can feel so intensely, even without being there with her (and with him). We fold in new language to talk about our bodies. Every day I learn something new about the physicality of mothering. I felt so scared at the precipice of change. Now, this nodal event growing ever distant in our rearview, I’ve never felt closer to my friends, to the world, to my dog. I’ve burst open. My best friend has a child. I can’t wait to meet him.