During my time in university, I took an unforgettable trip to Paris with my partner. One day, while strolling down a street, I noticed a mother and her two daughters heading towards us. My attention was immediately drawn to the older girl, who wore a smock dress reminiscent of what my late friend Mia used to wear. The girl’s rich brown hair and the way it fell in textured strands made me feel a jolt of recognition. As our eyes locked, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of familiarity. After passing each other, I turned back to see her staring at me, her expression riddled with an eerie recognition. This encounter left me so unsettled that I called my mother, who speculated whether this girl could be Mia’s sister. It turned out that Mia’s mother, Rachel, had relocated to Paris and now had two daughters, one of whom was the same age as Mia.
A few years later, tragedy struck when my high school friend, Alex, lost his life in a car accident. On November 20, 1992, my stepfather succumbed to a heart attack, and later, in my late twenties, I lost my best friend, David, to AIDS. I searched for signs of them, but unlike my experience with Mia, they never appeared in the faces of strangers. Occasionally, I would hear David’s laughter in someone else’s voice or catch a glimpse of Alex’s familiar walk, reminders of their presence but nothing more. In February 2014, my friend Sophie passed away, followed by my grandmother, whom we affectionately called “Nana,” just a few months later.
Nana was a remarkable woman. She resisted being called “grandma,” instead preferring the name Peggy, which later morphed into Nana for her grandchildren and eventually everyone else. She had a penchant for collecting whimsical items, notably a vast assortment of Little Red Riding Hood memorabilia, which filled an entire room in her apartment. Every celebration was an opportunity for friends and family to gift her yet another collectible, each hoping to surprise her.
Socially, Nana was unmatched, always attending movies, plays, and dining out daily—except Sundays. When you called to arrange a meal in November, she would consult her calendar and suggest the earliest date in January.
The final day of her life mirrored her usual routine, with one poignant exception: it was the day she passed away. She rose, penned a letter to Mia—my niece and her great-granddaughter—enjoyed lunch with her friend Sue, and returned home with half a sandwich for her housekeeper, Agnes. As she settled in to call Sue and express her gratitude, Nana never got the chance to complete her sentence. Agnes discovered her just moments later, lifeless in her room, phone still in hand, embodying the vibrant social spirit she had lived by until the end.
On the night of her passing, an unexpected connection emerged from the cosmos. My brother shared an email with the subject line, “The most bizarre thing ever.” Coinciding with Nana’s death was a rare astronomical event: NASA announced the birth of a new moon around Saturn, aptly named Peggy.
The announcement revealed that for the first time in recorded history, NASA’s Cassini spacecraft had observed the emergence of a new moon from Saturn’s rings, an extraordinary event that may never recur. While I don’t subscribe to beliefs in an afterlife or a heavenly realm, I find solace in the notion that our atoms are recycled, merging into new forms – perhaps even creating sea otters or the latest technology. Nana may be gone, but I like to think that her spirit lives on in the universe, interwoven with the fabric of existence. This event encourages me to view the night sky as a tapestry of those I have loved and lost, suggesting that every encounter holds the potential to connect with someone who once was.
NASA has inspired me to approach life and death with a sense of wonder, illustrating that these events are not entirely separate but part of a continuous cycle. It has deepened my understanding of why Nana cherished fairy tales. While I may not believe she watches over me, imagining her presence among the stars gives life a richer meaning.
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In summary, the interconnectedness of life and death, and the lessons gleaned from observing the cosmos, provide a profound framework for understanding our existence. Each of us carries the echo of those we’ve lost, and recognizing that potential in every new encounter enriches our experiences.
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