During my college years, I took a trip to Paris with my boyfriend. One day, while strolling down a quaint street, I spotted a little girl with her mother. The older girl wore a smock dress reminiscent of what my childhood friend, Melissa, used to don. The girl’s rich brown hair and the way it fell on her back were strikingly similar to Melissa’s, which left me momentarily stunned. As our paths crossed, our eyes locked, and I felt a jolt of recognition from her. I turned to look back, and she was still staring at me, her expression echoing a familiarity that shook me deeply. I immediately called my mother, who speculated whether the girl was perhaps Melissa’s sister. As it turned out, Melissa’s mother had relocated to Paris and had two daughters, one of whom was the same age as Melissa.
A few years later, my high school friend, Leo, tragically died in a car accident. On the same day, November 20, 1992, my stepfather passed away from a heart attack. In my late twenties, I lost my best friend, Alex, to AIDS. I sought signs of them everywhere, unlike the vivid encounter I had with Melissa. Occasionally, I’d hear Alex’s laugh in someone else’s voice or see Leo’s familiar gait in another person, but those were mere reminders, nothing more. In February 2014, I faced another loss; my friend, Clara, died, followed by my grandmother, whom we affectionately called “Puggy,” passing away at the age of 94.
Puggy was no ordinary grandmother. She despised being called “grandma” as it made her feel old. She was known as Peggy among her friends and became Puggy to her grandchildren, which eventually stuck with everyone. She had her quirks, collecting sun motifs and rice jars, but her pride and joy was an extensive assortment of Little Red Riding Hood memorabilia. So vast was her collection that she dedicated an entire room in her apartment to it. Every holiday was an opportunity for family and friends to add to her collection, each gift a chance to “win” her approval.
Social to her core, Puggy was always out and about, whether catching a movie or dining out—every day except Sunday. When you called to make plans, she’d pull out her book and offer the earliest date available, often weeks in advance.
The last day of her life mirrored her usual routine. She woke up, penned a letter to Mia, my eight-year-old niece, enjoyed lunch with a friend, and returned home with half a sandwich for her housekeeper, Agnes. She then went to her bedroom to call her friend, thanking her for a delightful day. They made plans to meet again, but Puggy never got to hang up the phone. Within minutes, Agnes entered to deliver the mail, only to find Puggy passed away, sitting on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, leaning back against a pillow.
That same evening, as our family processed the loss, NASA made a remarkable discovery. My brother sent an email with the subject line “The most bizarre thing ever.” Puggy’s passing coincided with an extraordinary event—NASA announced the birth of a new moon around Saturn, which they named Peggy.
The announcement stated: “For the first and perhaps the last time ever, NASA’s Cassini spacecraft has captured a new moon emerging from Saturn’s rings. The birth of a moon is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and in this case, it may never happen again.”
I don’t subscribe to beliefs in an afterlife or heaven. I think our atoms are recycled, mingling to form new entities, like sea otters or smartphones. My grandmother is gone, but the timing of her death with the birth of a moon that carries her name feels significant. I prefer to believe that those we lose become part of something new and that every encounter, every celestial body, holds the potential of being a remnant of someone I cherished.
NASA has taught me to appreciate the interconnectedness of life and death. It has instilled a sense of wonder that life doesn’t simply erase those who have passed but transforms them into new forms. Now, when I gaze at the night sky, I find comfort in imagining my grandmother among the stars.
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In summary, my experiences with loss and the connections I feel to those who have passed have shaped my understanding of life and death. The discoveries in space inspire me to see beauty and continuity in existence, reminding me that love and memory are never truly lost.