By Catherine Humikowski
Do give me space. Support don’t suffocate. I love you but you are standing too close to my face.
Don’t compare losses. I am very sorry that your cat died but please shut up about it right now. Also, your grandmother was one hundred and two years old. Where I come from, that is a blessing not a tragedy.
Do tell a good story about a time we should not forget. Tell me about grade school, knee socks, crushes, summer nights on the porch. Tell me about a long time ago. You can stand closer now if you want to.
Don’t ask if I’m okay. I am not. At work especially, read my silence as the only alternative to screaming. I would wail like a banshee if I could so don’t ask me anything or I might explode.
Do enter my space gently. Tread lightly. Make yourself small. If you are not one of those people who can do that, maybe call instead of coming over.
Don’t ask for the casserole pan back. Fuck the goddamn casserole pan.
Do send a note with your card. If you don’t know what to say, say that. But if all you can muster is your lone signature like some diva autograph, save yourself the stamp. I have no use for hollow condolences.
Don’t say how shocked you are. Death is about the least exceptional thing that can happen to a person. You will die too. So will I. So will everyone. If you find death shocking anyway, please don’t make me soothe you for it.
Do clasp my hand inside both of yours and lock my watery eyes in your stare and tell me how sorry you are for my loss. This works, every time. Stick to the basics.
Don’t forget about me. After the funeral when all the luncheon plates are cleared, offer your company. Weeks later especially, or on the birthday or the anniversary or the holidays when there is a hole at my table, find me. If I lose myself in my sorrow, if I dress like a vagrant and stop brushing my teeth, if I age ten years and can’t remember where my car is parked, do walk me home. Clean my face. Straighten my hair. Do take care of me, dear friend, because we both breathe for now and I don’t want to miss out on that. I want to register the warmth of the blood in my temple throbbing against your collarbone when you press my head to your chest and rest your chin on the crown of my skull.
Do help me to remember that we are both still alive.