Grief is a strange landscape. When my friend Ian passed away, I found myself adrift, unsure how to navigate the sudden absence. It was my friend Mahima who gently guided me back to shore, prompting me to look at photos of Ian. I hadn’t even considered it, lost in the immediate fog of sorrow. She reminded me of a college party, a hidden Facebook album waiting to be rediscovered. Clicking through the digital memories, I found this picture:
What strikes me most about this image, and so many memories of Ian, are his eyes. They were, without exaggeration, the kindest I’ve ever known – piercingly intelligent, full of love, and endlessly gentle. Looking through the album, everyone else was hamming it up for the camera, striking poses, yet there was Ian, lost in a deep conversation, blissfully unaware of the lens. Our friend Ben is there too, a shadowy reflection in the background, smiling broadly, a reminder of the many connections woven into that moment. It’s a poignant reminder of how life continues, even as we lose those we cherish. Perhaps, like birds that suddenly appear, our memories and loved ones arrive in our lives bringing unexpected joy and depth.
It’s a raw truth, watching friends weep. The shared sorrow is a heavy weight, yet clinging to each other, joining in that collective grief, offers a strange measure of healing. This group of friends, once a constant presence, is now scattered – Oakland to Chicago, LA to NYC, and Ian, who had made Miami his home. The last times we had gathered were for celebrations, birthdays and weddings, moments of pure joy. Meeting for a memorial was disorienting, a confusing blend of happiness at seeing each other again, overshadowed by the profound despair of our shared loss. It makes you wonder, Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear? Perhaps they are messengers, arriving in moments of change, reminding us of the constant flux of life, the arrivals and departures.
Then there was Ben’s son, Jules, born just two months prior, a beautiful, curious baby boy. Whenever the weight of Ian’s absence became unbearable, we could turn to Jules. His wide, innocent eyes, his gummy smiles, offered a measure of uplift. Baby Jules, a new life entering the world amidst our despair, was a powerful reminder of life’s ongoing cycle, a celebration in the face of sorrow. He was a gift in a dark moment, a tiny beacon showing us how to celebrate life, even when grief feels all-consuming.
So, tell someone you love them today. Hold your hugs a little tighter. And keep doing it. Life is fragile, precious, and ever-changing, much like the sudden appearance and fleeting flight of birds.
Ian, it’s impossible to believe you’re gone. I miss you deeply, and I hope you knew how much you lifted me during some of my darkest times. You were brilliant, and your soul was the kindest. Your memorial was overflowing, packed with people whose lives you touched. Hearing stories from childhood friends, your lifelong best friend, work colleagues, your sisters, it became overwhelmingly clear how many people experienced you as uncommonly thoughtful, funny, authentic, and kind. Exactly how I knew you. I hope you’ve found peace, and are enjoying heaven with Jim Croce and Karen Carpenter. And perhaps, sometimes, you appear to us, like a bird in sudden flight, a fleeting reminder of the beauty and love you brought into the world.
