The Collected Regrets of Clover

by Mikki Brammer

The most important thing is never to look away from someone’s pain. Not just the physical pain of their body shutting down, but the emotional pain of watching their life end while knowing they could have lived it better. Giving someone the chance to be seen at their most vulnerable is much more healing than any words.

Grief plays tricks on you that way—a familiar whiff of cologne or a potential sighting of your person in a crowd, and all the knots you’ve tied inside yourself to manage the pain of losing them suddenly unravel.

There’s a reason I know this city’s full of lonely people. I’m one of them.

It frustrated me that society was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love.

That was the day that I began to realize how hard it is to be anything but what the world already thinks you are.

“It’s just a little bit of water, kid. And besides, there are only so many times in your life you get to play in the rain.” He turned his face skywards, grinning. “Might as well enjoy it while I can.”

Not everyone shared Rosita’s cheerfulness. Other residents sat sedately in their wheelchairs staring ahead stoically as if readying themselves for the indignity of being ignored, knowing they’d already been forgotten by the rest of society.

Was I somehow less of a woman because I’d never had one to look up to?

To observe someone swept away by the thing they’re most passionate about, most skilled at—what some call “flow”—is one of life’s great privileges. There’s an energy that emanates, a magic. As if they’re opening their hearts up completely and letting themselves communicate with the world in their purest form—unencumbered by insecurities, stresses, and bitterness. Like time is suspended and they’re simply allowing themselves to be.

“The truth is, grief never really goes away. Someone told me once that it’s like a bag that you always carry—it starts out as a large suitcase, and as the years go by, it might reduce to the size of a purse, but you carry it forever. I know it probably sounds clichéd, but it helped me realize that I didn’t need to ever get over it completely.”

“I bet he’s waiting for you there.”

“Learn from my mistakes, my darling.” Each word was quieter, more staccato than the last. “Don’t let the best parts of life pass you by because you’re too scared of the unknown.” One last wink. “Be cautiously reckless.”

When someone has always been there for you, it’s easy to assume they always will be. And then, one day, they’re not.

“I’ve watched you spend your life trying to help people have a beautiful death—the thing you couldn’t give your grandpa.” Even now, his brown eyes managed to sparkle. “But the secret to a beautiful death is to live a beautiful life. Putting your heart out there. Letting it get broken. Taking chances. Making mistakes.” Leo’s breaths were becoming too labored for him to speak. “Promise me, kid,” he whispered, “that you’ll let yourself live.”

I considered again how I’d never asked him anything about his own life. I knew nothing of his fears, his challenges, his goals. It’s so easy to see your parental figure through that lens alone, to think that their existence has always revolved around yours. But before they were parents, they were simply human beings trying to navigate life as best they could, dealing with their own disappointments, chasing after their own dreams.

Grief, I’d come to realize, was like dust. When you’re in the thick of a dust storm, you’re completely disoriented by the onslaught, struggling to see or breathe. But as the force recedes, and you slowly find your bearings and see a path forward, the dust begins to settle into the crevices. And it will never disappear completely—as the years pass, you’ll find it in unexpected places at unexpected moments.

Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.

The fact that all of us were entangled—that everyone on the planet somehow shaped the course of one another’s lives, often without realizing it—felt like almost too much for me to comprehend. But perhaps that’s the point. Do we actually need to understand the world and all its patterns?

And instead of constantly asking ourselves the question of why we’re here, maybe we should be savoring a simpler truth: We are here.