how long do you keep the body?
I want you to think of your beloved objects. The objects that are both memory in nostalgia and memory in making. The things that remind you of who you have been and who you now are.
Think of the objects that serve as the body of your memories.
Last Monday, I awoke bright and early for my first day of work. I ensured I had enough time to really enjoy the morning. Each day, this time is lovingly dedicated to savouring every sip of my morning espresso. Nick, by surprise, decided to make it for me, giving me more time to rest in anticipation of the big day ahead.
From our bedroom, I was startled to hear an "uh oh," followed by a pressurized noise which could be no further from the low hum of the dripping liquid I was expecting. That could only mean bad news. It appeared that no espresso was to be delivered through the group head. Nick made a french press, I chugged it back and went on my way.
Later, I tried several more times to pull a drip of espresso with no luck. I was frustrated, confused, and rather heartbroken. What had happened? Had I broken it? After 6 years of dedicated support, had my espresso machine finally called it quits?
I thought of all the time my machine had spent with me.
I thought of my mum and I, curled up together mid-afternoon, in a small back room of a friends house overlooking the picturesque view of the lake. A late summer afternoon relaxing, where the two of us scrolled away at different espresso models on my laptop — the day I bought my espresso machine. I thought of making my first year friends hot chocolate with the steam nozzle, and I thought of filling my travel mug to the brim with 6 shots of espresso that same year (to get me through a five-class day). I thought of her, my miracle machine, sitting in the kitchen of my first apartment and the people I made coffee for then; the saving grace that a good cup of coffee was for exhausted undergraduate students. I thought of long jittery nights in my third year, which only she could get me through. I thought of my last cup before moving to Halifax, and having to say a short goodbye — which quickly became a long goodbye. I thought of her, packed away in my family home, while I drank pod coffee in Oxford. I thought of her everyday for two years. I thought of the day my mum said she would drive my things from Nova Scotia to Ontario, knowing my espresso machine would be first on the packing list. Not a day has gone by where I haven't thought of what a blessing that she is.
She delivers exceptional coffee and almost never complains about it. How was I to go on?
As the week progressed, I began to think of a similar tragedy Nick and I experienced last year.
This past February, the two of us took a vacation to Ireland and stayed with a family friend in a beautiful home in county Donegal, on Cruit island. We spent that week driving through the mountains, curled up by the fire, and walking beach cliffs with our host and a perfect Shepard; Treacle. This trip was a much needed period away from England, where stresses were building, health was failing, and anxiety was piling; we desperately needed an escape. We had been locked in a period of underlying hardship, and now had something to look forward to.
I had dreamed of visiting Ireland with one key purpose in mind: to acquire an Aran sweater. Midway through our trip, we drove to a small shop called Triona: a 40-year old family store, where we were warmly welcomed with demonstrations of how the sweaters are made, and the meanings of each different pattern. We settled on two crew neck knits: a warm white and a moss green; both featuring the honeycomb, cable, and diamond patterns. The two of us in our beloved sweaters could not have beamed brighter that day.
I will always imagine Nick, in his cozy moss knit curled up on a matching leather couch, basking in the light of the front porch with Treacle. A welcome scene to warm the cold of February in Ireland.
Sometime in that next month I went to wash the green sweater, and then I went to bed. Let me describe the scene for you. Around 3:00am that night, we sat straight up in bed, awoken to a room filled with smoke and steam, accompanied by a loud thumping sound. Delirious and exhausted, the two of us fled to the living room to see what the matter was.
Was the house on fire? What was that noise? What was happening?
It was the beloved moss-green Aran sweater. The two-in-one laundry machine had turned to a dry setting (I continue to believe this machine had a mind of its own), rather than just a cold wash. Nick took the previously large sweater out of the machine to find a sweater sized for a child — the wool had fused together, and it was now an impenetrable object.
I sobbed profusely. Helpess. For hours.
This sweater, that I had waited years to purchase in the right place, with the right person, and in the right scenario, was now destroyed. How could this have happened?
Over the next month, I failed to let go. I tried to stretch the sweater back, which was an obviously impossible task. I held on to the sweater over that time, keeping it folded neatly, but stiffly, in our living room. The body of the deceased still in sight, a reminder of our loss. Nick would slowly move the sweater toward the rubbish bin, and I would slowly move it back. He would inch it closer, and I would inch it back. At one point, I removed it from the bin, and brought it back to the living room. I wasn't ready to let go.
It eventually disappeared.
We both still talk about that sweater. Everything it was, all that it symbolized: that period of our lives, that trip, that shop, that sweater.
Today, as I gave my espresso machine one last chance, and all I could think of was the green sweater piled in our Oxford home for far too long. If my machine wouldn't produce a shot one last time, how long would it sit on the counter? For a week? For a month?
How long do you keep the body?
I racked my brain for every possible way to save my machine. Nothing I read offered a solution. As a last attempt, I decided to clean her. I bought a descaling fluid and hoped for the best. Nick and I practically held our breaths as I ran the solution through the machine—it wasn't looking promising. The liquid sputtered, stopping and starting, speeding up and slowing down. After three rounds of cleaning, it was time for the moment of truth.
And by some miracle of faith, my machine delivered a perfect shot of espresso. I jumped and yelped. I couldn't believe it.
I wouldn't need to start researching for a new machine. I wouldn't need to survive purely on drinking from the french press until I could purchase a new machine. I hadn't need to mourn. I hadn't needed to let go of the body.
I sip that same espresso as I write this. It is fresh, smooth, creamy, and rich. It is everything I needed it to be. It is everything I hoped it would be. Every sip brings me back to six years of espresso-saturated memory. Each and every one.
Now, I want you to think back to your beloved object. Maybe it is a machine, maybe it is a piece of clothing — it could be anything and it could be everything. Imagine the one that holds all the memory you need to store outside of your body and in the vessel of another. Whether these objects remain in use or at rest, they hold the weight of the past and delicacy that is the present.
Let yourself love the body of the memory — it has held you just as you have held it.
xoxo, anna