Dearest Rachel –
When we set out for the island a couple of weeks ago, Daniel went and got your urn to take with us (after all, that was the whole point of the trip). But at first, he also made to gather up the water bottles we’d surrounded it with on the sunroom coffee table, where it took up residence.
I tried to dissuade him from bringing them along with us. While I’m sure we could have found room for them in the car, I couldn’t grasp what he intended to do with them while we were there. He has water bottles of his own, if functionality was the issue, and they wouldn’t be welcome had he wanted to leave them behind at the cottage; what purpose would bringing these along serve? Bringing back some of the lake water? At it turned out, we did that with your urn, so their presence would have been redundant.
But upon reflection, they do represent a few aspects of your personality that I rarely give much thought to; which is weird, when you consider that these letters were originally meant as a tribute to you and who you were (granted, as the days go by, and stuff – life, in general – keeps happening, the developments in my life have taken up the bulk of them since, regardless of whether my activities would have been those you would have gleefully and enthusiastically joined in on, or pulled a face and let me go my own way with them).
For starters, there’s the fact that you (and, thanks to your bringing him up in your image, Daniel) rarely went about without a water bottle. I wasn’t a big fan of them, since I liked my water ice-cold, and those plastic bottles just couldn’t keep their contents at what I considered to be the ‘proper’ temperature. These days, I’ve actually come to understand the benefits of being (if not staying) hydrated, thanks to the ascendance of the Stanley cup and a refrigerator that makes ice cubes automatically, so I can have it on demand; however, I still don’t take it on my walks with Lars, much to even his dismay.
In my defense, I’ll remind you that you had a habit of needing to know where a bathroom was, wherever we happened to be, since all that water would, after all, need to go somewhere after having run its course through you. When you’re somewhere that that’s not an available option (such as on a hike through the woods – yes, I get that there are the trees and such, but I’d rather not, thanks), that can pose… difficulties… that even now, I’d still not have to be dealing with. At the same time, I wasn’t about to stand in your way; if you wanted to bring your water with you wherever you went, who was I to prevent you? It was supposed to be good for one, after all, so while I wasn’t all gung-ho on the idea, it would do you no harm, save for having to make frequent restroom stops.
I might also mention the concept of microplastics, but that’s a discussion that didn’t really come up until recently – and probably more so after your departure. In any event, my metal-lined cup would render such an issue moot – and you would probably have gotten one of your own when they became the hot item to have a couple years back.
Which leads to the other item that I rarely bother to think about when it comes to your habits and hobbies; would you have crocheted a cover for your theoretical Stanley cup? You’d made several for the plastic one shown here on the left, including a red-white-green Christmas-themed one (which you had just removed and replaced with your customary purple one shortly before we went up to camp for you to meet your fate), as well as a solid blue one for Daniel, complete with crocheted lanyard so you two could carry your bottles around your necks. I would assume you’d have done the same with the Stanley, even despite the fact that their lids come with handles (which is more than you could say for these old bottles).
For someone who didn’t consider herself particularly artistic – although, compared to your parents who were both professors in the field, you had a high bar to clear, so you probably just didn’t bother to try – it was an unusual hobby for you to take up. Then again, maybe that was the point, as a means to connect, however obliquely, with your folks and their fiber arts emphasis; it wasn’t like weaving on a loom, but it was something of theirs that you could do, and so share a certain kinship with them beyond just being kin.
You even used this talent of yours to benefit others, in getting involved with the Linus Project; an organization dedicated to parents of stillborn and miscarried children by making little dressing gowns to serve as shrouds, thereby offering the children a little additional dignity in their deaths:
And yet, I rarely consider these facets of your life as I go about what’s left of mine. Most of what I tell you has to do with the things we might have shared and enjoyed; the things that were more your own solitary pleasures sort of slip my mind. I apologize for that, and hope this letter makes up for that in one way or another. Perhaps I’ll remember one or another such thing along the way, although I can’t promise when or where, and make a note of it to you as another such mea culpa.
Until then, though, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 