David & William

David & William

The pre-memory exists in a distant land, as if it were another life, another person. Pre-memory perhaps, is the memory of before. Even calling it “the before” reminds me of a dystopic novel or tv show, though I cannot remember which one. We are now in the world of remembering, “the before.” And the “during,” and at some point, “the after.” 

The before felt so impossible anyway, with its big dreams and giant expectations, with its siren song of subway cars and stomping the pavement and the sensual idea of “success” in the city. The before, the parts I remember, I see a different girl in there. She is reeling, scrambling, searching, performing feeling completely out of her depth; she is constantly re-prioritizing and what did it even feel like in the before? When was the last night of the before? What did we do? Did we know? Do we ever know?

And the during, this during has felt (for so many) like years already. So much has passed and yet nothing has passed and everyone is passing. 

Loss and memory are inextricably linked. The memories of the lost, the losing of memories, the loss we feel when we remember or don't. The ways in which these two friends play together are infinite and tragic. We lost something this year, and the memories of not only what was, but what could have been – these fabricated memories of things we remember envisioning for ourselves – can be suffocating. 

And others are truly suffocating; we have lost millions of people. People have lost their loved ones to the shortness of breath and the fever and then who knows what and those memories are smoldering and aching and ready to be lit aflame yet The Virus, the very thing that has caused these memories to break through the surface is the same hand that shoves them back down. There are no gatherings, no places to memorialize, no allocated space to grieve and so no place to, perhaps, remember. 

And then, maybe there is too much space to remember, too much space for these memories and the thought of drowning in them makes us complicit in the shoving back down. 

So what does it mean to perform any sort of memory during this time? 

I wrote both of my grandfather’s obituaries. My grandfather David died of another virus when COVID had yet to infect anyone, and my grandfather William died of natural causes when COVID had infected the world.  

As a professor of mine put it, I’m starting to lose all of my village elders. 

The before was wrapped up in David’s passing, in the ways that particular virus had wracked his body, made him small, stolen his vigor and unveiled all of his regrets. I was sucked into a world of negotiating the familial politics of his death, what it meant for me, for everyone, and how the longevity of his suffering revealed deep-rooted trauma that had been untouched by anyone for years. The before was a version of me trying to perform a version of this memory, and now I can barely remember what that felt like. 

I was in New York for six days after everything shut down, and then I got the call that my other grandfather, William, was likely to leave us soon. I left the epicenter, flew down to Georgia, where the red tape was slowly trickling in, and just before the lockdown hit, I was able to see him. I sat with him in the hospice room for hours, watching him breathe, watching him struggle. His body, like David’s, had shrunk. It was the first time I had ever seen him with stubble on his chin. He looked rugged, ragged, and ready. I sang to him. I talked to him. I recorded his breathing. I kissed his head. I told him it was okay to go. I told him I loved him. And early the next morning, he died. 

In the before, in the hustle and bustle, David’s death felt so immediate, present, always with me, it was on my skin, on my tongue, in everything I did. It was on me, I felt resigned to write about my dead grandfather instead of all the things I thought I wanted to pursue in New York. 

                               And now, in the now, in this never-ending quarantine where it’s just one long day’s journey into the long night and where we have nothing to do except be with the present, William’s death feels like a distant memory. I am trying to hold onto him; I wear his hat, his jacket, I have his paintings on my wall, and I still feel it all slipping away. I’ve been in Georgia for two months now and sometimes I forget the reason why I came down here in the first place. The loss of this memory, of his memory, is the tragedy of this quarantine. 

            I have recordings of both of them the nights before they died, and still. 

This quarantine is radically shifting our subjectivity, and the loss of our sense of self translates to, perhaps what seems as, a loss of memory. Or maybe that is just me. 

And now I am resigned to continue to write about both of them, to continue to carve out space for the memory, to continue to figure out how to perform (or not perform) these memories in this space that is so antithetical to productivity and meditation. 

And then, the after is still yet to come. There is something beautiful about that. 

Memory. I keep wanting to look forward but can only look back.  

We are not given the space to grieve, to gather. There is so much to grieve. 

And still, so much to celebrate. 

Though I feel the memories of celebrations are fabricated. 

The disorientation is palpable. I can only think of the physical disorientation from the virus. Where the body and mind violently disagree, creating a portal for memories to flood into the foreground. And then to even consider what memories will haunt us at the end fills me with adrenaline and terror. 

I keep thinking about my grandfathers. 

And I keep thinking about the memories that will stay with us from this long year. 

And the fact that this is also a memory.