Death comes to everyone sooner or later.

It’s nearly spring here in the San Francisco Bay Area, that week or so at the end of February when first the almonds and then the plums start blooming in abandon. I find myself looking out the window where I work on Coreopsis Journal.  Outside is the San Francisco Bay where the California sun is shining in all of her legendary splendor, lighting up the Bay in the  deep blues and golds of late afternoon. Far out, through the Golden Gate I can see that the expected weekend rain is on its way, sending tendrils of clouds across the sky. This warm day is the false spring. Winter will return shortly, the cool winds and the “horsetail” clouds heavy with rain are just a reminder. That’s good though, we need real winters here on the West Coast: abundant snow in the Cascades and the Sierra, full reservoirs, rivers and ponds. This is as it should be. It has been the first winter in many years that I have recognized as being as it should be. I’m not sure there are many here who remember that.

This past winter has also been a season of death. Not just the death of autumn’s splendor into the depth of winter, but of an era, of a friend.

Death comes to everyone sooner or later.

That’s a truth that’s bandied around with resignation or in jest at the latest horror flick or Carnival or Dia de Los Muertos. This winter, I begin, once again, to understand the rituals of death and why we do them. I want to put that black floral wreath over my door that my Victorian foremothers made from ribbons and paper and say to the world: “Someone important is gone. Please be gentle. Be respectful. There is sorrow in this house.”

Of course I don’t. It would be a bit overdone and maybe tacky in 2023.

When death visits a close friend or relative or a beloved colleague, it’s sometimes a shock and sometimes, in the case of a lingering illness, a relief and never without mixed emotions. Death has visited me several times over the past few years, taking someone I loved to that next adventure beyond this world. And, in early December my very dear friend, Ren, died. She had a recurrence of a particularly virulent cancer that had quickly metastasized and within a few hours, she was gone. It was sudden and shocking.

In the days that followed, the community around her rallied and helped her son and his wife, who had flown in from the other side of the country, clean out her house and plan for the memorials. He needed some legal work done, so we put our heads together and found some referrals. That’s what community is all about: supporting each other, caring, and stepping in when needed. Much to my own surprise, each step I took made saying goodbye just a little bit easier. I dreaded going to Ren’s house that first day we agreed to help with the clean out. I have so many memories of events there with Ren and her husband, Herb, before he died in 2012. Going through her things and sorting them felt like a violation.

Then, we realized that Ren was really gone. The house knew it. Her things were empty of her presence.

With one of Ren’s close friends, I walked through the house with rosemary and rainwater and told her that it was OK, we would be OK, we would always remember her and we will miss her, but we are OK.

Then we packed boxes of books, clothes, all the things from ordinary life: towels, blankets, dishes, knickknacks and took them to donation stations. Other boxes of memories and family heirlooms were carefully wrapped for her parents and her son to take home. And, small boxes of memories for each of us to put away in our homes: a painting, a Yule ornament, a hat, a book, a piece of jewelry. Just to remember.

A month of looking for items that will be needed for officialdom: papers, notes, phone numbers.

The rituals of death proceeded. Notices and cards were sent, a ritual created for the community memorial. Obituaries were written and sent.

Funds were raised to help with the trailing debts and funeral expenses.

And, then, the day came that there was nothing left to do.

Then: something happened. During the memorial, held at a place where Ren gathered this small community together for seasonal celebrations every year, she came.

I was putting some boxes of stuff in the tiny kitchen of the meeting hall when I saw her, cloaked in the lovely blue-green cloak she wore for rituals and special occasions, her long lovely hair blowing back in an unseen wind and she smiled her smile that melted every heart. And… she was gone.

There is a hole in our small community and an empty place in my heart that has Ren’s name on it.

Ren, herself, dances in the fields of Avalon and she, too, will be OK.

February 16, 2023