Yesterday, I had the opportunity to attend a special event with Arundhati Roy. She was reading and speaking about her new book Mother Mary Comes To Me, the title an ode to the Beatles song Let It Be. Roy wrote, “In these pages, my mother, my gangster, shall live. She was my shelter and my storm.”
A new filmmaker friend of mine in The Hague remembered that I was reading this book while preparing for my documentary, Unpacking Grief, and happened to have a spare ticket, which she kindly offered me. I, of course, excitedly and graciously accepted.
I adorned my father’s green silk shirt, the one with his initials stitched on the cuff, along with my parents’ anniversary cufflinks and ring (my dad had made this for my mother, and it had been miraculously found in Mum’s house), my father’s dark burgundy tie and suit jacket, and one of my mother’s necklaces. I paired it all with extra wide-leg jeans and silver cowboy boots. I had to make it my own.
We traveled to Amsterdam early, as if we were meeting the Beatles themselves, and lined up eagerly at the gate. It was free seating, and we were determined to get the best spots. The event was held at the University of Amsterdam, in a beautiful lecture hall inside a church. The first row was reserved, so we darted to the second, front and center.
We hoped no one tall would sit in front of us, but of course, this was the Netherlands. When two tall people sat in the front row, I insisted that my friend take my seat, the one with the unobstructed view. After all, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be there.
As my mother would have done, I struck up a conversation with the person next to me. I mentioned that both my parents had passed away and that every day I honor them by wearing their clothes and jewelry. She smiled and said, “Well, I’m wearing my mother’s scarf.” We both smiled knowingly.
When Arundhati entered the auditorium, she took the seat directly in front of mine. Before sitting down, she turned around to look at the packed hall and saw us giddily grinning. By some coincidence, or maybe a sign, we were wearing the same colors: green and burgundy. We both had silver shoes on.
During the talk, she read excerpts from her book and shared moments from her mother’s life. When she described one particularly intimate memory, my eyes welled up and the tears began to fall. My old friend, grief, had tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, I’m here.
As I wiped my face, the woman beside me, the one wearing her mother’s scarf, gently put her arm around me. Twice she did this, whenever she sensed grief taking over. I whispered, “Thank you.” I hadn’t realized how much I needed that, the kindness of a stranger who knew.
When it was time for the book signing, my friend and I, with sniper precision, got to the head of the line. My heart was racing.
When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and said:
“I lost my mother in January, and I’m a filmmaker. I’m making a film about grief. On the first day of my shoot, your book arrived. I read the first paragraph and cried. And today, I cried again. It’s as if grief is compelling me to make this film. I just wanted to say thank you. Your book truly resonated with me.”
I can’t believe I managed to say all of that in those few seconds. I am so grateful I got to share that with her and to experience such small but profound connections throughout the evening.
Everything about my grief journey feels destined and guided. Perhaps it’s all a coincidence, but what I’m learning through my grief is this: Always expect a miracle.
Currently in production: “Unpacking Grief,” a documentary exploring loss, love, and the ways we remember.
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