It’s November, a time when many cultures remember their dear, departed loved ones. I happened to read today about a Chinese goddess named Dou Mou, who is the goddess of the north star. People call on her to protect the spirits of their dead and to keep the living safe from illness. It’s said that people write messages to the dead and then burn them so the message can be delivered in the smoke by Dou Mou.

I am thinking a lot about feminine power and wisdom, after my special weekend. Today happens to be the anniversary of my grand aunt’s death. Yesterday was the anniversary of my paternal grandmother’s death. They died two years and 365 days apart. I was inspired to write to them and to my maternal grandmother, who has been gone fifteen years, I think.

Dear Mabel,

You were so clever and kind. I sometimes didn’t know how to relate to you, but it got better as I got older. You always encouraged me to think and stand up for myself. I am grateful for the opportunity to live in your home for a little over a year while Ian and I were saving money to buy our house. It was a lovely little home and it made me feel good knowing you lived there with my mom, aunts and uncles. It was a happy time for us, in that sweet little house.

I regret not coming to see you after you moved out of your home. I regret it a lot. I was just very self-absorbed, working long days and long weeks, and fully involved in my marriage and newlywed life and friends. I was selfish. I am sorry. I miss you.

I will always love you.

Sara

Dear Nana,

Today is the anniversary of your death. I miss you a lot, especially whenever I pick up my paintbrushes to paint. I am grateful for all the love and abundance you showered me with in my life. I am most grateful for the support you gave to my intellectual and artistic pursuits. You gave me my first camera. You gave me paints and canvas, and endless drawing supplies. I wish I could discuss art and painting with you now. I wish I could see more of the art you made in your youth and while you were teaching. I miss you.

I will always love you.

Sara

Dear RoRo,

My heart aches when I think of you, RoRo. You have been gone now two years. I miss your warm smile, your smell, your soft skin, even your mumbling, whispering words that were so hard to understand at the end. I miss our shopping trips and especially the trips to the nursery. I miss talking to you about flowers. Thank you for your boundless generosity. You gave me so many advantages in life. You made me feel special and wanted, even when I was bratty and selfish, even while I was pulling away to do my own thing. I wish that you could see me now, see my boys growing up. I know they’re scruffy, but they’re kind and smart and brave and they take care of each other. You loved them so much, and I think you would like them too. I have started wearing your orange silk kimono. I never saw you wear it, never imagined you would own such a garment. That you did has allowed me to imagine you as a woman, and not just my grandma. It fills me with wondering. I miss you.

I will always love you.

Sara

1990
You were young and beautiful. You were sassy and courageous, and wicked smart. You swore a lot. Wore loads of silver jewelry. We had a Norse mythology course together and you were into women’s studies. We had coffee together, and lunches.
You introduced me to Dave, your boyfriend at the time, who was one of the gentlest guys I’d ever met.
You guys offered to get me high, in your cute little apartment with altars and weird art. Shivas and Kalis and Bob Marley, scarves draped over lamps, incense. I don’t remember all the details. I just know I’d never been in a home like yours before.
You were wild and wonderful, a force of female energy. No denying it. No need to.
You were my Hecate sister, my Artemis, wise beyond your years and more concerned with being free and thinking free, so that caution wasn’t a concern.
You were not afraid of the dark.
You gave me a beaded Scorpio bracelet. I still have it.

You wrote poetry and articles—a “zine” we called it back then. For a few years after I moved away, we stayed in touch. You sent me some of your work. I missed you terribly.

2011
And we met again in 2011, via Facebook. I had searched for your name repeatedly over the years, and then finally one day, I found the right Amanda. In Sacramento!

You came to my home and met my family. You and Ian used to know each other, when we were in college together. You met my kids for the first time.
You were still wild, and now with an edge. A little more darkness and pain. Probably a lot more. I didn’t know how you could fit into my domestic bliss. I was a little afraid of your brand of crazy.

But your voice was the same, and I was thrilled to know you again. It felt great to hold you in my arms when we hugged. Your voice—I can hear you speaking in my mind even now. I will never forget your voice, Amanda. And that you helped me learn how to use mine.

2012
How are you gone? I found out through Facebook, which is a shitty thing to find out no matter how the news travels. But because of Facebook I knew within a day. My friend is dead? Is it some kind of sick, inside joke? Not real?
Real.

You are – were 42 years old. Too young, my dear. I blew it, Amanda. I’m sorry I didn’t really understand how tough life was for you. I wasted too much time, when we could have been talking on the phone, or meeting for coffee. I could have …

Now I wear your Scropio bracelet that you gave me 20 years ago. And I hear you in my mind sometimes. And I stalk you on Facebook. I read the things that your friends are writing to you and about you. I’ve written to you there, too—how I really wish things were different.

Your wall is the weirdest and newest kind of gravestone. This now-ubiquitous technology has allowed people who don’t know each other to connect, share stories, and to mourn. I read what’s written there, and page through your photos. I’ve stolen some because I don’t have any of you that I can find; we were friends before I used a camera constantly. The photos are little pixels of you. They are not enough, but it’s what we have.

Ours was and is a mediated relationship, and I am sorry for that. Your horoscopes come up in my newsfeed, as if you were still using them, sharing them. I think you might like that these weird astrological messages come from the ether on your behalf. Through Facebook I have learned that your friends are holding a memorial for you tomorrow in Sacramento and I cannot be there for it. I am hoping that those who go will post photographs, and continue to use your FB wall as a way of showing and sharing our love for you. I hope this digital tribute, this little slice of your life will continue. It is weird and wild and wonderful.

Like you. Magic.

Too soon, my Hecate sister. Too soon to fade into the night.
I’ll see you again someday at the crossroads.