During the pandemic, I was pregnant and no one knew. I existed in a Zoom square from the shoulders up. On calls, I would awkwardly blurt at the beginning or end, “I have news!” There was never an opportune moment, so I just dropped it like a heavy box.

All of which is to say, my stepmother of 33 years, Donna, passed away recently.

Heavy box.

Home

I always thought life was linear, but it’s more of a curve. Those of us who left home did so eagerly, spry with hope, unaware that someday we’d return for solemn occasions. I’ve been in the shiny years of weddings and babies, all the while inching closer to the years filled with more funerals and goodbyes.

In Austin, I’m a different person. Mrs. Gordon. A matriarch in my own right, a ministry wife, an active neighbor. Not one friend here has ever tried my dad’s smoked ham. They don’t have a mental picture for the 5 acres I call home. I did that on purpose, I think, in a youthful delusion that my past wouldn’t inform my present or future. Why be a hick Okie when you could be a hip Austinite?

If you’ve stayed close to home your whole life, I imagine you love it. I also imagine there are times when you feel like you can’t breathe there. For me, the latter feeling won out. I’ve written about the complications of being the only person of color, yet no words can explain the daily heaviness. Life in a big city has brought the simplicity of anonymity, the reassurance of seeing faces that are similar to mine. The visual confirmation that I belong.

When I fly into the Tulsa airport, which I used to do weekly, I always pause for a moment in my mind. I remember that this was the airport where I met my family. The beginning of my life in the United States. It’s special to me.

As I get older, I find it more impossible to describe home. It’s a 5-acre plot, with oak trees and a steep hill down to the creek. Every time I’m there, I walk the yard and the neighborhood, soaking it all up to fortify myself before returning to city life. As a teen, I thought it was boring. As an adult, I see why my dad purchased it when he was 41.

Inconvenience

Having left social media, I realized the threads that hold communities together have decayed. I remember obituaries in the newspaper. We then graduated to curated social media posts. I’ve got neither. I awkwardly texted a few high school friends. Nothing like sending a “we haven’t talked in months but btw someone close to me died” text (ok not my actual words, but that was the actual vibe).

If you choose to opt out of social media, you opt out of the only remaining source of loose community. It’s become the local newspaper. Except all the news is opinion, and it’s written by anyone who has one. These platforms foster passive communication, further decaying our sense of connection. Instead of texting friends, we post updates and hope they read them. Our friendships are so sprawling, our lives so busy, that we have made even friendship more efficient. Optimized it by putting it online. It’s asynchronous now! You can catch up with bestie when it works for you!

I don’t have that luxury. Friends would innocently text me about playdates or plans, and they were not prepared for the response. “Can’t have a playdate this week, I’ve been sitting in a hospital in Tulsa for three days.”

Heavy box.

This fall has reminded me how inconvenient friendship is. It’s my college best friend giving up a whole weekend to visit my parents in the hospital. It’s a neighbor watching our kids on a few hours’ notice. It’s my Tulsa friend understanding that I’m going to stay with her indefinitely, keep weird hours, and cry. Our family has deeply needed and cherished every support we’ve gotten over the last few months, and all of it was way more complicated than leaving a comment on an Insta post.

It’s these inconveniences that soften our edges and tear down our walls. Every time we choose others over ourselves, we give ourselves more to love. Hear me: I’m not talking about martyrdom, because that is self-serving in a different way. I’m talking about risk. Choosing to take an overnight guest, or watch someone’s kids, or cook for someone. Outing yourself as “I might be someone you could rely on”. That’s scary for most of us. In these moments of beautiful sacrifice, I think we can find real purpose.

Magic

I’ve recently become a more “woo woo” person. I think I’m willing to admit there are divine powers of good and evil in the world, and I see these forces more now that I’m looking for them. The morning we drove back from the hospital for the last time, I stood outside. A murder of crows was in the trees, flapping furiously and raining down acorns. They fussed for a few minutes and flew away. Dad mentioned that they don’t see crows much.

When I landed in Dallas, everything in my suitcase smelled of smoke. Donna was a smoker for my childhood and adolescence, and the smell was surprisingly nostalgic. Even as I immediately washed everything, I felt a tug of memory.

The day after the funeral, a lime green ladybug landed on me. I’ve never seen a lady bug that color before. The next day, it landed on my dad. We both felt like it meant something.

Woo woo.

Someone once said to write from healed scars, not open wounds. This fall is still an open wound, and I don’t have more to say about it right now. The grief has been like a physical ache. The acts of love and kindness a balm. There have been moments of astonishment and pure joy and despair. I know it’s changed me, and everyone in my family, in ways seen and unseen. All I’ve got for now is the smoke and crows, a few magic moments, a heavy box.