Speaking to people who aren’t necessarily there
not a Halloween-themed post
Earlier this year my friend told me to go and watch All of Us Strangers at the cinema. Afterwards, on the phone and in our respective living rooms, we talked through things we had loved about the film.
My friend told me that he couldn’t believe how much it captured certain aspects of his life. He said it felt as if someone had found fly-on-the-wall footage of him growing up; of him coming to terms with his sexuality, and coming out; of him losing a parent in early childhood; of him drinking milkshakes as a young adolescent in American-themed suburban restaurants; of him talking with his mother, decades after her death.
It was only after our film chat that I learned just how much my friend talked to his mother, asking her for advice about a love interest, outfit choice, or the position of a lamp - whether it looked better on the table by the window, or in the corner by the big plant. Career advice, too, for she was in the same industry as he is now.
My friend told me how he found comfort in walking around his house, listening to albums such as Blue by Joni Mitchell that his mother had listened to, and loved as much as he does. He talked with her as he glanced at photographs on the wall, of her dressed in a cream three-piece suit on her wedding day, or a tight vest and jeans, feeding her newborn son, my friend, while dead-heading some pansies in a pot.
Recently my friend said: Sometimes I don’t think it’s helpful to talk so much with my mother.
I liked the idea that they still got to hang out, though. My friend has since said that maybe it is not good to live too much in the past, and I agree with that. But I like to think that his conversations with his mother are a way of visiting her when he wants her company. He knows he can’t stay in that place forever.
Ever since I first met my friend and fell instantly in love with him nearly 35 years ago, I have felt close to his mother. I never did get to meet her, but I thank her on a regular basis. I think it is no coincidence that I found out that I was pregnant on what would have been her birthday. June 16th. A birthday she shared with her youngest son, my beautiful friend. I like to think that certain bonds aren’t eradicated by death, or absence, which is why I say: talk to your mother, talk to your father, talk to your beloved childhood dog or your first love or your best friend from primary school, or a person you’ve never even met, if it makes you feel good.
I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone very close to me, so I can’t comment on how it would feel to talk to them with the knowledge that I would never actually get to see them again. However, I do speak a lot to the bud of a life that didn’t make it, the sort-of baby who I lost at 9 weeks’ pregnant last year. I also speak to the tree that my friends gave me for my 46th birthday, a few months after my miscarriage, in memory of that little soul. I don’t have any lingering sadness anymore – just gratitude that I am pregnant again now. However, I will always remember the pain of that loss.
I speak to the people who come into my mind often, on the days, weeks or months when a telephone call or meet-up feels out of reach. I conjure these people into being in my mind, then ask them things when I am looking for answers that I can’t find, or indeed, send them love, strength (or indeed, an apology) when I think that’s what they might need.
Sometimes, I speak with my children throughout the day when they are not with me. This ongoing dialogue helps me to feel connected to them when they’re at work, college, or school, navigating a life that can feel unrelenting. I know that eventually, even my children who still live at home with me, even the baby that is cooking inside of me, will leave. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t still call them closer by talking with them.
To end, I wanted to ask you something, my few readers who are not in the room with me, but who, if they are reading this, sort of are in some way.
How did you spend your day today?
I woke up, did a few stretches, had a bagel with marmite and peanut butter, fed the cat, half-cleaned the kitchen, sort of made the bed, did my work, went walking in the park with my elder son, apologised to him for saying something he found hurtful, liquidised some soup that I don’t really like, but that I didn’t want to waste.
I’ve been very unproductive, it feels. I often think that I spend a lot of my time doing absolutely nothing, and I wonder if other people feel like this, too. Sometimes, like now, I look at my bedroom and think: will I ever learn how to tidy properly, and be a proper adult?
Have a good weekend.
I absolutely love this piece of writing. It speaks to me so loudly about the way life feels. In lots of our days, nothing much happens. And yet we feel so much. I think that in some ways all of the books I have written have been about this. The huge feelings we have while liquidising soup we don’t really like. Thank you for writing this Grace
I love the way you describe half cleaning the kitchen and making the bed, and apologised to your son for saying something hurtful. So real. So like my life. I often feel I haven’t achieved much.
But I do know that it’s a month/year/decade or even a lifetime of diligently showing up for our family/friends/work colleagues and, most importantly, ourselves that we achieve much in relationships and projects. It often doesn’t feel like it at the time though!