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. And it was my honor to do that—to look them in the eye and acknowledge their hurt, to let it exist undiluted—even when the sadness was overwhelming. Even when my heart was breaking for them.

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.

I never liked the pressure of being the first one in the room. It meant you had to acknowledge each person as they entered and then withstand the threat of small talk until the meeting started.

“I don’t think it’s weird at all. Death is a natural part of life. In fact, it’s the only thing in life that we can really count on.”

This was getting painful. And it made me uncomfortable how he kept using my name, like we were good friends.

It was safer to reject her before she could reject me.

“Well, my dear, just as we don’t know how long a match will last until we light it, we never know how long a life will last until we live it. And often there are factors that we have no control over.”

Hope had a magical way of healing someone—or at least helping them hold on for that little bit longer.

But, then again, loving someone inevitably also meant one day losing them—if not by rejection or betrayal, then most certainly by death. At least when you’re alone, there’s no risk of getting hurt. After all, you can’t lose something you don’t have.

the most important lesson she’d ever learned was to listen more than you speak. (Admittedly, when you’re an introvert like me, that’s pretty easy advice to follow.)

A symptom of spending a lot of time alone with your thoughts like I did was that sometimes they could run a little wild.

“So, as you interact with people in your life, take the time to observe them. Look at the way they inhabit the world. Do they like to be noticed or do they prefer to blend in? Do they approach problems creatively or intellectually? What agitates them or calms them?”

I’d learned the hard way that when people ask you how you’re doing after a loved one’s death, they don’t really want to know. They want to hear that you’ve moved on because they can’t stand to look at your pain. And when I didn’t move on, the emails gradually trickled to nothing.

About what it would be like to have someone whose day was better for having you in it. Someone whose mind you occupied even when you weren’t there. Someone who trusted that you would treat their heart gently—and would take on the sacred duty of doing the same for you.

frustrated me that society was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love. Or, on the other hand, how it dictated that grief for someone you knew fleetingly should be equally as fleeting. But while a mother who miscarries might not have ever had the chance to hold that child, they had plenty of time to love them, to dream and hope for them. And that means their grief is twofold—they’re not just grieving the child, but the life they never got to experience. Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn’t worthy?

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

Most people love talking about themselves, so they rarely noticed when I deflected the focus to them.

I took a mental snapshot of the moment so that I could always treasure it.

“If you want something you don’t have,” he’d said, “you have to do something you’ve never done.”

“Love is kind of like scratching a mosquito bite—painful and euphoric at the same time. You’ve just got to get out of your head and into your heart.”

I wished I was at home on the sofa with my animals, watching someone else’s life play out on a screen—or through a window.

Passing the time getting lost in the pages of a book was one of the things I loved most about traveling.

It fascinated me how parents messed up their children so obliviously.

As I stepped aside to let him pass, I caught the combined mustiness of stale tobacco, spilled beer, and questionable hygiene habits.

All I wanted to do was curl up on my sofa with my animals and never leave the apartment again.

her hoarseness likely the mark of a lifelong love affair with nicotine.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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 secret to a beautiful death is living a beautiful life.