It has now been more than six months since the sudden and unexpected death of my closest friend, Robyn. Personally I've hated the term 'closest friend' because she was, in reality, more like a twin sister. Losing her in a lightning flash has been tough-the hardest death I've had to grieve in decades. For the last half year I have been haunted by this punch to the heart, dealing with the major and minor changes this beloved woman's passing has created.
We no longer exist in a society which recognizes the extent loss affects us. Grieving the death of a loved one is something technology cannot ameliorate. The intensity of this process is unpredictable, persistent, and exposes a raw vulnerability you may have never withstood. Though I am quite familiar with loss, this one has been especially hard to grieve.
To honor my psychic twin, I found comfort in creating a shrine for her in my living room. I see Robyn's shrine daily. For awhile I would say the Phowa prayer for her but then I just started talking to her. It seems odd to talk to a picture, but the more I did the better I felt about her passing. Sometimes I will just tell her about my day and other times I ask her what advice she has for me in situations where I feel stuck. She doesn't answer but that does not matter. What matters is, as I mourn her not physically being here she is there in spirit. It helps me remember those inspiring times we had together and what made her an indispensable friend. Whenever I feel overwrought by her death, I look at her shrine I can almost hear her voice telling me it is going to be okay.
Talking to the dead is not something I would speak about openly. One can be put in psychiatric jeopardy admitting something like this. Even though my other friends are sympathetic to my loss, I frequently feel acknowledging my continued sorrow bores them to tears. It's almost as if I can telepathically hear them say, "move on". But one does not move on so easily when your heart is shattered and a forged bond has been severed.
I know there will come a time when my grieving will ease and I will 'move forward' with less heartache. Until then I will continue to talk to Robyn.
Watching the 'March for Our Lives' yesterday gave me hope. All those bright young people grappling with ineffable shock were able put a voice to the tragedy of death by senseless murder. They, too, were talking not only to the living but also to their deceased classmates. I was especially impressed by 11 year old Naomi Wadler representing girls of color who died and never made 'front page news'. Their grief is still fresh yet they had the where with all to galvanize their sorrow into action. By speaking for the dead they honor all those who have fell victim to gun violence. Who knew talking to the dead could create a revolution?
