Yesterday was the first day since Emily’s death that neither Don nor I cried, even though she was abundant in our conversation. We spent the afternoon with some of our dearest friends on their patio, huddled beside their fire pit on one of the first warm and sunny days of spring here in Vancouver, eating bratwurst and coleslaw. We were laughing and remembering so much of our extensive friendship history, and I thought how Emily loved each one of us on that patio and how she loved staying at Steph and Aman’s, hanging out on their deck in the summers, sleeping on their sofa, helping Steph prep food, intuiting what needed to be done and when. She was the perfect sous chef and bottle washer. By the time Charlotte roused herself from her torpor, Emily was usually done with whatever task needed doing. She loved keeping busy and being active. It was in her nature to help, to work with her hands, whether it be learning how to prepare beautiful food, make cocktails, fix gadgets, make machines, build stuff whether from sand or wood or nuts and bolts she had lying around, make masterful short films – she had a keen desire to create.
When Emily was little she invented her own language that she shared sparingly. It had its own world and history. She and Don would go on long hikes in Hong Kong and she would school him on the history, teach him new vocabulary, give him quizzes on all things Card Language. It was ever-evolving and Emily kept notebooks of her thoughts, maps, treasures, the lexicon, as well as shields and representations of this amazing world she developed.
Occasionally she would let me in to this world also, though it was one she mostly shared with her daddy. They bonded deeply on their long treks, picking up bits and bobs along winding trails and beaches, that became part of the treasured world that they shared together. It was almost like Emily was reaching for her version of heaven through this creation.
From early on and until they end, Emily quizzed both of us deeply about our beliefs and different philosophies, probing, and all the while, coming up with her own belief system that accompanied her magical thinking, which could just as well be called faith as imagination.
As I opened my computer to write just now, a picture of Emily on the bed with Moondog and Catboy flashed across my screen. And there were the tears. Don came in to get something and sat on the bed and wept with me. We didn’t even need to talk. We just miss our baby so much. I believe she will always be building something magnificent in her new world and her creations will come out exactly as she imagines them.
