During my college years, I took a two-week trip to Paris with my boyfriend. As we strolled down a charming street, I noticed a mother walking with two little girls. I was instantly drawn to the older one, who wore a familiar smock dress that reminded me of my childhood friend, Emma. The deep richness of her dark hair and the way it framed her face gave me a jolt of nostalgia. As our eyes locked momentarily, I felt a striking recognition pass between us. I was so taken aback that I called my mom, who speculated whether the girl could be Emma’s sister. As it turned out, Emma’s mom, Carol, had moved to Paris and had two daughters, one of whom was the same age as Emma.
A few years later, tragedy struck my life when my high school friend, Leo, died in a car accident after falling asleep at the wheel. On November 20th, 1992—exactly the same date I write this—my stepdad passed away from a heart attack. In my late twenties, I lost my best friend, Ryan, to AIDS. I searched for signs of them everywhere, but unlike the fleeting recognition I had with Emma, they never appeared in the faces of strangers. I would sometimes hear Ryan’s laugh or see Leo’s distinctive walk in someone else, but they were just echoes, not real connections.
In February 2014, my friend, Lily, passed away, and just this past April, my beloved grandmother, “Nana,” left us at the age of 94.
Nana was no ordinary grandmother. She refused to be called “grandma,” fearing it made her seem old. Friends knew her as Patricia, but her grandkids called her Nana. She had her quirks—collecting sun decorations and rice jars—but her most notable passion was her extensive collection of Little Red Riding Hood memorabilia. She had so much that she dedicated an entire room in her apartment to showcase it. Every gift-giving occasion became a friendly competition to find her the most unique item.
Social to her core, she was the most outgoing person I’ve ever met—my mom is a close second. Nana never missed a movie, play, or lunch and dinner out, except on Sundays. When I called to set plans in early November, she would flip through her planner and offer me the soonest available date—always in January.
The last day of her life was like any other, except for its finality. She rose, penned a sweet letter to Mia, my 8-year-old niece, enjoyed lunch with her friend Sue, and returned home with half a sandwich for her housekeeper, Clara. While trying to call Sue to thank her for their lovely outing, Nana never got to finish the conversation. Just five minutes later, when Clara entered the room with the mail, she found Nana sitting on her bed, phone in hand, as she had passed away. Nana left this world at 94, still in the midst of her vibrant social life.
I didn’t have to search for her in the world. On the night she died, NASA made an astonishing discovery. My brother shared the news in an email with the subject line reading, “You won’t believe this!” It turned out that Nana’s death coincided with a rare astronomical event: Saturn had birthed a new moon, which NASA named Patricia.
On that very day, the announcement came out: “NASA’s Cassini spacecraft has observed Saturn’s rings giving rise to a new moon, an event that is incredibly rare and may never happen again.”
I don’t subscribe to beliefs in an afterlife or heaven. I think our atoms merge into a cosmic soup, eventually forming new entities—like playful sea otters or advanced iPhones. Nana is gone, and the physical presence she embodied is no more. Nevertheless, I find a comforting connection in the coincidence of her passing and the birth of a moon sharing her name. I like to think that those whom I’ve lost, including Emma and Lily, have transformed into new forms within the universe. Every person I meet and every moon I gaze upon could be a remnant of love that has evolved.
NASA taught me to observe the world with a sense of wonder. It offered a hopeful perspective that life and death are intertwined, and that the universe doesn’t erase those who have departed; instead, it recycles them into new celestial wonders. Now, I understand better why Nana cherished fairytales. Is she watching over me? Probably not, but imagining her among the stars certainly adds depth and meaning to my life.
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In summary, our experiences with loss can shape our understanding of life in profound ways. The connection between the cosmos and the people we’ve loved can offer us hope and perspective as we navigate our journeys.