In the same conversation …

In the same conversation …

In the same conversation …

In the same conversation I had with Claire’s boyfriend about the significance of her admiration for long Furby, I also asked about the significance of the bats. He told me that Claire loved bats because “they are small and cute and kind of look like dogs but they’re also spooky and gothy.” He dedicated a plaque in remembrance of Claire and her affection for bats at a bat sanctuary in the area, and the owner told him he placed the plaque in the “Geribatric” ward for old bats—a pun so perfect you’d think Claire had a hand in it.

I had always been loath to use the term “goth” when it came to Claire and her personality because I always associated gothiness with “posers,” people on the fringes of society that place themselves there with the duplicitous purpose of rejecting mainstream society while also coveting its acceptance. I lumped all Goths into this category of dark, dramatic grunge, and I wouldn’t allow myself to see Claire in that light. She isn’t a poser, so how could she be goth? Maybe I did this precisely because there were so many aspects of Claire that were unknown to me so I filled the gaps with my own narrative. I’m disappointed that I allowed myself to indulge in this kind of gross stereotyping—and just how reductive it is—of Claire. I failed to embrace her fully. And so did her parents. We owed her so much more.

I recently got a tattoo of a bat on my right ring finger. It’s a minimalist outline of a bat, and some of the lines are barely noticeable because the tattoo artist had a hard time tattooing my finger while holding the skin taut. I hoped the pain of the tattoo would mimic the pain I felt the last time Claire and I got piercings together. I hoped the pain would summon the pain of my grief, but it didn’t. I barely felt it. And I was disappointed. I wanted to feel more. Is it possible to feel too much grief?

How do I mourn Claire unselfishly? I almost wrote “how do I mourn Claire’s loss” unselfishly, but the way the question is framed centers myself and my feelings in Claire’s death. Claire died. How do I mourn Claire? How do I mourn Claire’s death (to me)? How do we mourn death altruistically? It’s weird to have relics of someone’s life after they’ve gone. I visit Claire’s Instagram page and scroll through it as if she could post something new any day now. And I visit often. I still have a free sticker I nabbed from a live “Last Podcast on the Left” show we saw together at the Haunt in Ithaca. I don’t listen to podcasts, and I had no idea what Last Podcast on the Left was, but Claire loved it so I happily joined her. The one relic that I never want to lose, but I also feel like could become too much to hold on to, is our text thread. I’m not sure how far back it goes, but at least a year or more. It sits at the bottom of my Messages app, buried under active conversations. Claire’s number could easily be someone else’s by now, and the idea of that breaks my heart. I can’t believe the world continues to rotate without her.

In the same conversation …

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