My soon-to-be daughter-in-law is one of the most porously enthusiastic humans I know. By this, I mean that not much stands between her enthusiasm and its expression. Watching my youngest son play lacrosse, she can’t help but bounce a little, kind of more with him than watching him, cheering his every move and ready to take out any player who checks him. “Love Lists” are her invention, a practice of doubling down on what delights.
I recently was on the receiving end of another one of her lists, this one titled “What I’ll Miss in Cambridge.” My son, her fiance, just finished graduate school here which means her time in Cambridge will be more limited going forward. The list includes a range of things: from favorite restaurants to running on the Charles River to the above mentioned lacrosse games. She is, wonderfully, specific about where, how, and with what she is all in.
This “What I’ll Miss” list reminded me of something a friend said when she heard my uncle died. “I don’t know if you were close, but I hope you were.” What struck me was the second part. I hope you were. This is different from what people tend to say in the face of death. More usual is some version of “I’m sorry for your loss.” This was more like, I hope there was something substantial enough that this feels like a loss.
I recall both the intensity and cleanness of my grief when our family dog died some years ago. It was almost like love spilling out through the space losing him created, the size of the hole determined by the size of the love.
A “What I Will Miss List” is a “Love List”, just wearing a different outfit. I don’t necessarily wish for grief, but I do hope to live and care in a way that leaves marks—river paths, sideline grass, dogs gone, people missed.
Xo Jill