I went for a walk on the beach this morning, as I have most mornings this month. It’s quieter in the mornings than afternoons so it’s a good time to think, with the sound of the waves and the feel of the wind surrounding me.
I saw these two shells still joined together and picked them up. I have a ritual I do when I find two like this. I gently break them apart and then stand at the water’s edge and cast one in, saying “This is for you, Michele” and then I cast the other one in, saying “This is for me.”
I know exactly when this ritual started. November 1990. I was on the west coast of Ireland, near Brandon Bay. That trip to Ireland was supposed to be the two of us, our first trip overseas, the big adventure we’d talked about for a few years because she really wanted to go somewhere and they spoke English in Ireland (I remember her requirement of an English-speaking country so clearly, still). So there I was, on that beach, and Michele wasn’t. She had died that February. As I stood there, alone in my grief, I saw two shells joined together. I picked them up, and then cast one in the water for her, and tucked the other one in my pocket.
From that day on, every time I was at a new beach and saw joined shells, I’d throw one in, saying her name, and keep one. Somewhere over the years, I started tossing both of them back, Michele’s first and then mine, as if mine would keep hers company.
The first few years, this ritual made me cry almost every time, remembering my friend. She was thirty-four years old when she died of ovarian cancer. She would never be thirty-five, like me, or fifty, or sixty-two. We’d never be those old friends, sharing a park bench, like in that Simon and Garfunkel song.
As my grief lessened, each time I cast her shell into the water, I would remember something about her: her big black ring, the artwork she made, that big convertible, top down on the first warm spring day in Poughkeepsie, the indie movies she’d drag me to every week in Boston that summer I was working on my masters project.
Today, I thought about those children in Florida who have lost their friends in this week’s shooting. I wonder how they will cope, if they will create their own rituals to remember their friends: a favorite song in a playlist, a place where they hung out, or a color they always wore. I hope they find ways to hold their friends’ memories in their hearts.
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
George Eliot
In memory of Michele Monjeau
This is a photo from when Michele and I both worked on Clearwater, she’s the one on the far left (and I’m barely visible about six heads over to the right). Albert, next to her, is also gone (Tacoma firefighter line of duty death), and I remember him when I see firefighters hurrying by me as I pull over to the side of the road, that’s my Albert ritual.
“Those who have died, have never, never left, the dead have a pact with the living.”
-Sweet Honey in the Rock
For some reason , I don’t recall getting this, but it brings back such memories, happy & sad. We were only 13 months apart and have so many memories. I have such vivid memories of her stopping in Albany on her way from Boston to PoTown, and Caity (1st daughter) and Michele snuggled up on the couch drawing things or her reading to Caity. I was then certain Caity would follow in her artistic footsteps. I miss her every day, but at least I have her artwork hanging all over and all her Clearwater stuff which brings awfully mixed emotions all the time…
Thank you for your words and thoughts. (& did you ever make it to Ireland?)
Oh, Tom, I’m so glad you read this post. I think of Michele a lot still, especially when I’m at the beach, as I am now. I can almost hear her encouraging my artistic bent in photography, she was always so sure when we were both living in Boston that I’d find an artistic niche eventually.
I did get to Ireland, and for a few years, I went every quarter for work and thought of her each time I did any sightseeing. There are few friends who made as much of a mark on me as your sister did, she was a special and unique person and I treasure my memories of her. I’m glad you have her artwork and her Clearwater things, both brought such happiness to her. And I do remember her talking about Caity, although I didn’t remember the name; she loved being her aunt.
Annie, thank you for finding me on Facebook to read your post, it is lovely. I wonder about you from time to time, and hope that you and some of Michele’s other friends are well. I shared it on Facebook with my brother and sister. It is things like this that warm my heart, knowing that her friends, who were few but special, still remember her as we do.
I hope your life is joyful in whatever you have chosen. I hope you don’t mind if I print this to keep with my Michele memories. Thank you again, be well!
Suzanne
I’d be honored to have you add it to your memories of Michele. There honestly isn’t a week that goes by that I don’t think of her, and I remember her on her birthday every November. I’ve wondered over the years how you were doing, happy to find you on FB so I could share my writing with you, and your siblings (I remember them too, from your wedding, oh, so long ago!).
Clearwater honored Michele when they updated her Hudson River Fish key, you can see it here, read down a bit and it will make you proud: http://www.clearwater.org/fishkey/acknowledgements.html
I checked out the website, it is very cool, particularly to know that she was not even alive when the web was part of everyday life. I do have a copy of the book from the 2010 publishing, I bought them for my family to keep. I so wish she could still be here, her caring, guidance, joy and craziness are so missed in my life. Both of my parents are gone now, so we are the eldest generation in my family. My sister Jackie has 2 boys, my brother Tom has 2 girls and I have a son, the youngest 23 years old. I think to have her in their lives would have been transforming in one way or another. Her artwork is all around each of our homes.
I read Michele’s diaries after she was gone. When something so difficult happens in our lives we search for the why. I found it many years later as my cousin Marie was diagnosed with the same cancer. She is around today still, after 15 years. My dear sister endured the treatments to help future generations. In one of those diaries, she stated that we all knew she was going to die, but she just wanted someone to say that they didn’t want her to. I have made that my objective since, to tell everyone that is a part of my life that I don’t want them to die. It is a difficult goal, but have vowed to make sure that each person knows that they have effected someones life so much that they will in fact say it. It helps me make her proud where ever she is…
What a beautiful way to keep memories alive and safe in your heart. Thank you for this wonderful gift of prose. Thank you for sharing. Continue to journey safely.
That was very moving, Annie.
Love your ‘work’.
Rituals are so important. 30 years ago we founded a charity, the National Centre for Childhood Grief in Australia for bereaved children 3 – 18 http://www.childhoodgrief.org.au. We talk about ‘fattening their memories’ as we develop rituals which help them remember. I am reassured that our friends and colleagues in the USA, such as the Dougy Center in Portland, will be there for the kids at the school.
People die but our relationship with them lasts as long as we can remember.
What a good charity, children do need to learn how to grieve and remember. Watching my nephews deal with the loss of their father when they were so young made me realize we didn’t know what to do. I’m relieved there are these organizations in the US that can work with the children who survived this and the other shootings. Now the US needs to work on banning guns and following the Australian example.
I am so sorry for your loss, Annie. You should know that your wonderful writings and rituals keep her in your heart…..where do many of my friends are!
Thanks for that, Keith. I agree, friends stay in our hearts. The older we get, the more live on there, and little things trigger our memories of them. Bittersweet, but I’d rather remember than forget.
My dad won a 1957 Rolex watch in a bet whose details I don’t remember. When I do or go somewhere I know he would like I wind the stem on that old Rolex to bring it to life so we can share the moment.
That is a lovely thing to do, Mike, keeps your Dad close to you in such a personal way.