The story of your death day
Later, I want to tell you the story of your Death Disco - how surprisingly beautiful it was for us all. But for now, I leave this here, the transcript of the story I told, the story of your glorious death day.
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| Photo by Kelly Clark: "Five Things Friday" |
"Join me in this sacred space as I tell the story of Kelly’s beautiful crossing over into the mysterious afterworld. For us, it was a day drenched in joy and wonder. The days afterward held considerably less that that, but on that one magical day in July - we were rebirthed by death.
It is my strong hope that you too will be given new life by bearing witness to this story.
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When you took your last breath of this planet’s oxygen, I was in the back seat of my car with another man.
That "man" is your 1-year-old nephew, Roscoe. Your sisters Aubrey and Laurel, who Joel and I had just retrieved from the airport, were inside a store we’d stopped at en route to your home.
Joel was in the front seat when his phone rang. It was our Allison and I still don’t know the exact words she said, but Joel hung up 30 seconds later and I said, “What?”
“Kelly’s dead.”
The news, so perfunctory and unceremoniously delivered felt like the one time a Shaman used a massive owl wing to blow air onto my back and my face. The eerily powerful owlwind of you had washed over me.
I knew there was a reason I didn’t wear mascara that day. Kelly, I don’t think I ever will again. No, that’s a lie. I will and we will discuss it, forever. Because our particular flavor of soul contract was made of old wisdom, the worship of curiosity, attraction to mystery and self-knowing, the love of a well put together outfit, and eye makeup.
It was such a beautiful, hot July day and I had the car windows down. Joel got out of the car to intercept your sisters and I heard the most holy, sacred curse bellow from Aubrey.
"GodFuckingDamn it," she screamed, clawed her belly, and bent over.
Laurel was stunned silent, frozen, a hand covered her mouth, grasping for the impossible breath.
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About a half an hour after you passed, we pulled up to your house after what felt like the longest drive of my life. Your dad was sitting on the steps, ready to receive us. I quickly hugged this man I had never met but always knew, left him to greet his daughters, and made a B-line for you.
I ran into Allison, who was rose-colored with pain and also hugged her but couldn’t linger even for a second as those long-ass tendrils of your crone hands grew from the bedroom down the hall into roots and vines around the corner, winding around my heels and neck - pulling me into your death embrace.
I crawled onto your bed and grabbed your face and Oh! Oh! I was so happy for you. I kept whispering in your ear, “I’m so happy for you, I’m so happy for you, You did it! You are so brave. Oh this is so interesting!”
I wailed, so says Robin - though I didn’t hear it and it wasn’t even nearly as loud as it needed to be. I kissed your soft skin and whispered to you.
I worshiped this ultimate act of self-love, to know and trust that this is for you and for you alone and everyone you were worried about and holding onto this life for - that we are all going to be okay - we will take care of each other as you orchestrated.
Brad stood up from his seat at your right, and I grabbed your hand. I held it forever, kissing it for so long. Noting that we needed to do your nails.
I grabbed a file. I knew we wanted to prepare your body for the last most important event of your life, your death day...and as you told me, you needed to look good.
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It was time to call the women to us. After a few hours, they all arrived. We all wanted to spend time with you, bearing witness to this moment. I also felt you wanted time with us, for us to see and be and love on a Kelly free of that GodFuckingDamnit cancer.
We celebrated, and continue to celebrate, your liberation from: ketogenic diets, chemo x 3, broken back bones, lymph-edema, radiation, deep fatigue, crippling anxiety, persistent nausea, no appetite, not being able to breath.
And yet that body still felt so impossible to let go of.
Because despite all it had not done for you and for us, it was also so glorious, always poised and stretchy and confident and perky and olive-skinned, willowy, strong, and whole.
As I filed your nails, there was a moment we got to be alone. You asked me to play "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill" and I was like, “Really??” And you were like, "Yes bitch."
I laughed, and we hung out with Lauryn.
And soon the ritual began.
Your mother brushed your hair and put lavender oil in it - clipping a small locket of hair for keepsake. We wandered your property for botanicals and flowers. I put them all in a pot of water in your creme-colored Le Creuset dutch oven - which you loved.
We steeped the petals and herbs and foliage to make your holy water - scented with lavender, fern, pine, sage. Your mother cut the shirt your were wearing off (that fucking neon shirt) and we tore it up to use for washing rags. Using your carefully curated mug collection, we dipped our mugs into the water and dipped the cloth into the mugs and washed you as we cried and passed around a bottle of whiskey.
"We should sing," someone said. But what? Does anyone have any song?
And another said. “Sea of love” and we laughed because why that? But it was perfect. And then we sang “Sea of love.” And as our voices sang “Come with me, my love, to the sea, the sea of love. I want to tell you how much I love you.” And then “dream a little dream of me” as a prayer to you to please visit us from wherever you must go.
And as our voices floated out the open window above your head to so you to began to float in bliss. Women, singing as they work, women singing over the bones as they have done for generations.
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After you were washed, we put alternating umber and white colored dots around your eyes, your afterworld makeup mask. We put this gorgeous red warrior stripe down the down the center of your lips.
Kelly, you loved it. We could all feel how INTO it you were.
We soaked small California poppy petals, fushia petals, and sage leaves in oil and make a necklace of them at your collarbone and around your belly button. We poured lavender, frankincense, and cypress oil all over your feet, hands, legs, belly, torso, collar bone, arms, and hands. Oh how we indulged in those expensive oils, pouring and pouring. And the room, oh the room smelled so amazing.
We tucked masses of fresh lavender and bee balm under your neck and head - bright pink palms of petals that looked almost like earrings. Between your torso and arms we tucked hydrangea and echinacea. On your head was a crown made of ivy and cedar leaves.
We wept softly still, as the ancient hands made ready this vessel which had housed the soul and spirit of the woman we loved. Who loved us. There was such joy in the room that we got to be all together like this.
We painted your middle fingernails only, so you could return to earth with a great big fuck you to cancer.
"Middle fingers up, bitches,” I heard you say with a laugh.
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We finished getting you ready and called in the men, who placed a crown of ferns at your head and sage leaves at your feet and hands. You were ready.
We then opened a bottle of champagne to toast you, pouring a few drops in your lips and belly button. We rang the singing bowl three times. Oh how goddess-like you were, like Titania, the queen of the fairies.
We hugged, we laughed, we wept, someone put food and drink in us, we made such irreverent jokes and you were there, bounding around in curiosity, excitement, and love.
We lingered there.
And then it was time. We wailed. I fell to the ground on my knees and saw nothing but heard the young innocent cries around me. All of the children inside of us, all of the growing young women, the middle aged women, and our ancient crones...they all wept and wept and wept.
Through this sea of tears, you were carried into ancestry. As if the swell of our wailing waves propel you to the ancient ones.
Eventually, the wailing died down and we gradually began to come and go out of the room. In my time with you, I kissed your hands and studied your left arm - the tattoo too long covered by a sleeve. Hatch - it said.
I studied the markings, wanting to make myself drunk on you. Knowing I would never again behold this earthy visage.
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| The holy water cooked in your favorite Le Crueset dutch oven. |
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| Jess's hand dipping into the holy water |
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At sunset, the call was made to have your body taken from us. Four of us sat in the room with you as they wrapped you in soft white cloth and placed you tenderly into a beautiful red velvet bag. I was nervous that this part would be gruesome, but it too was beautiful. They lovingly left your death outfit on, and we sent you with a great horned owl wing feather and a piece of danburite.
We walked out behind you ringing a bell and beating three drums, your funeral mourners. Yet, it didn’t feel sad to me, it felt sacred. Like the absolute holiest ground I’ve ever walked on. As they placed you in the car, we put a braid of sweetgrass on your head, and kept drumming as you drove away - kept playing until we couldn’t see the car anymore.
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| Photo by Kelly Clark |
And you, you eternal cowgirl...true to form, you rode off into the sunset.
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Many hours and much whiskey later, we burned every GodFuckingDamnit cancer book in the house we could find. And with it, we burned away the cancer from you, from Brad, from the house, from us all. Cancer's grip on you fell into ashes at our feet.
Be well, bird."
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