During my college years, I spent two weeks in Paris with my boyfriend. One day, as we strolled down a charming street, I was captivated by a little girl who resembled my dear friend Lucy, especially in her familiar smock dress. The color of her hair and the way it gracefully fell reminded me so much of Lucy that I was momentarily taken aback. As we passed each other, I locked eyes with her, and she seemed to recognize me, which sent a shiver down my spine. I was so unsettled that I called my mother, who mused whether the girl might be Lucy’s sister. It turned out that Lucy’s mother, Diane, had moved to Paris and had two daughters, one of whom was the same age as Lucy.
A few years later, tragedy struck. My high school friend, Ethan, died in a car accident, and on November 20, 1992—the same date I’m writing this—my stepfather passed away from a heart attack. In my late twenties, I lost my best friend, Robert, to AIDS. I sought signs of them everywhere, but their presences were ephemeral. Occasionally, I would hear Robert’s laugh in a crowded room or notice Ethan’s familiar way of walking in a stranger. Reminders of their existence, but nothing substantial. In February 2014, my friend Sarah also passed, followed by my grandmother, “Nana,” in April of the same year.
Nana was no ordinary grandmother. She preferred to be called by her first name and had a vibrant personality. Known for her eclectic collection of trinkets, especially Little Red Riding Hood memorabilia, she dedicated an entire room in her home to the fairy tale. Gift-giving was a competitive sport among family and friends, as we all aimed to add to her collection.
Socially, she was unparalleled, always out at events and dining with friends—every day except for Sundays. When you called to set plans, she would check her schedule and offer the first available day, often months ahead.
On the last day of her life, Nana’s routine remained unchanged, except for one significant detail—it was her last. She wrote a heartfelt letter to Mia, my young niece, enjoyed lunch with her friend, returned home with leftovers for her housekeeper, and was on the phone thanking her friend when she passed away. She was 94 years old, sitting peacefully on her bed, still connected to the world she loved.
That night, I didn’t have to search for signs of her; NASA found her instead. My brother sent an email with the subject line “The most bizarre thing ever,” announcing that Nana’s death coincided with a remarkable event: Saturn had birthed a new moon, which was named Peggy.
The news read:
“For the first and perhaps last time, NASA’s Cassini spacecraft has witnessed a new moon forming from Saturn’s rings. Such occurrences are extraordinarily rare, and this may never happen again.”
I don’t subscribe to beliefs in an afterlife or heaven. I think our atoms are recycled, merging to create new life forms, like dolphins or smartphones. Nana is gone, but I find comfort in the notion that her passing aligned with the birth of a new celestial body named in her honor. This connection offers me solace, as if those I have lost—Lucy, Sarah, and Nana—have transformed into something new, still present in the universe. Each encounter, every moonlit night holds the potential for rekindling the memories of those I cherished.
NASA has shifted my perspective, revealing that life and death are not isolated events. Rather, the cosmos recycles existence, intertwining the lives of those who have come before us. I now understand why Nana adored fairy tales. While she may not be watching me from the heavens, imagining her among the stars certainly enriches my life.
If you are exploring ways to conceive, consider reading more about home insemination methods. For more information on this topic, check out this resource. Additionally, this site offers comprehensive resources on home insemination kits. Lastly, the NHS provides valuable insights about intrauterine insemination, which can be found at this link.
In summary, our experiences with loss can lead to profound reflections on life, connection, and the universe itself. The stories of those we’ve loved continue to shape our understanding of existence.