During my college years, I spent two weeks in Paris with my partner. One day, as we strolled along a charming street, a mother and her two daughters approached us. I was immediately struck by the older girl, who wore a smock dress reminiscent of the ones my childhood friend, Lila, used to wear. The way her dark hair fell and the texture of her locks brought back vivid memories of Lila, prompting an unexpected wave of emotion. As we passed, our eyes locked, and I sensed a haunting familiarity in her gaze. I was so taken aback that I called my mother, who speculated whether the girl could be Lila’s sister. To my surprise, I later discovered that Lila’s mother, Marissa, had relocated to Paris and had two daughters, one just a year younger than Lila.
Not long after that, while still in college, tragedy struck when my high school friend, Jake, lost his life in a car accident. On November 20, 1992, my stepfather also passed away from a heart attack, and in my late twenties, I faced the loss of my best friend, Tom, who succumbed to AIDS. Unlike the moment with Lila, I never encountered any echoes of Jake or Tom in the people I met. Their presence lingered in my dreams, and occasionally I would catch a hint of Jake’s laugh in someone else’s voice or recognize Tom’s familiar stride in a stranger’s walk. They were reminders of what I had lost, but nothing more. In February 2014, my friend Sarah died, followed by my grandmother, whom we affectionately called “Nana,” in April.
Nana was not your typical grandmother. She despised being called “grandma” as it made her feel old. Instead, she was known as Peggy to her friends and Nana to her grandchildren, later adopted by others as well. Despite her youthful spirit, she had a few grandmotherly quirks—she collected suns and jars of rice, but her most notable obsession was her extensive collection of Little Red Riding Hood memorabilia. She had amassed such a trove that an entire room in her apartment was dedicated to the fairy tale, and every occasion was an opportunity for someone to gift her a new collectible, all in the hopes of impressing her.
Nana was the most sociable person I have ever known (my mother ranks a close second). She attended every movie, play, and dined out daily—except on Sundays. When you called to arrange dinner plans in early November, she would consult her calendar and offer the earliest available date, typically in January.
The day she passed was like any other, except it was the last. She rose that morning, penned a letter to Mia, my 8-year-old niece and her great-granddaughter, enjoyed lunch with her friend Sue, returned home with half a sandwich for her housekeeper, and entered her bedroom to call Sue to thank her for the delightful afternoon. They scheduled another get-together, and after hanging up, Nana never spoke again. When Agnes, her housekeeper, entered just minutes later to deliver the mail, she found Nana gone, seated on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, and her mouth slightly open as if she had just shared a laugh. Nana passed away at 94 on April 16, 2014, while on the phone, exactly as she had lived—surrounded by friends.
That night, a remarkable event unfolded in the cosmos. NASA, in an email with the subject line reading, “The most extraordinary discovery,” informed us that a new moon had been birthed from Saturn’s rings, and they named it Peggy—a fitting tribute to my grandmother.
The announcement stated:
“For the first time, NASA’s Cassini spacecraft has observed a new moon emerging from Saturn’s rings. The birth of a moon is an exceptionally rare occurrence, and in Saturn’s case, it may never happen again.”
I don’t subscribe to beliefs in an afterlife or a heavenly realm. I think our atoms are recycled, mingling in a grand cosmic blender to form new entities—perhaps sea otters or even the devices we rely on. While my grandmother is no longer physically present, I find comfort in the coincidental alignment of her passing with the birth of a moon bearing her name. I like to think that those we’ve lost—Lila, Sarah, Nana, and others—exist in a different form, perhaps mingling with the stars and the moon. This idea enriches my encounters with new people and the wonders of the universe, instilling hope that life and death are intertwined, with the cosmos continuously recycling those who have departed.
NASA has inspired me to perceive the world with a sense of awe and curiosity. While I may not believe that Nana is watching over me, it brings meaning to my life to gaze at the night sky and ponder her presence among the stars.
For further insights on home insemination and the journey of motherhood, visit our in-depth articles about the Home Insemination Kit and the expert advice from Cryobaby. For a comprehensive understanding of pregnancy week-by-week, explore the resources available at March of Dimes.
In summary, the experiences of loss and the wonders of space exploration have taught me valuable lessons about life, death, and the interconnectedness of existence. The idea that our loved ones may become part of the universe fosters a sense of hope and continuity.
Keyphrase: Loss and Life Lessons from NASA
Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]