During my college years, I embarked on a two-week adventure to Paris with my boyfriend. Strolling down a quaint street, I noticed a mother and her two little girls approaching us. My gaze was instantly drawn to the older child, who wore a smock dress reminiscent of one my friend, Lila, used to wear. Her beautiful brown hair, parted just so, and the way the ends cascaded down her back brought Lila to mind so vividly that I was momentarily taken aback. As our eyes locked, I felt a jolt of recognition from her. After we passed, I turned to see her still staring at me, her eyes filled with a strange familiarity. I was so unsettled that I called my mother, who mused whether the girl could be Lila’s sister. As it turned out, Lila’s mother had relocated to Paris, now raising two daughters, one just about Lila’s age.
A few years later, tragedy struck when my high school friend, Jake, lost his life after falling asleep at the wheel. On November 20, 1992, the same day I write this, my stepfather passed away from a heart attack. Then, in my late twenties, I faced the heartbreaking loss of my best friend, Sam, to AIDS. I searched the world for signs of them, but unlike Lila, they didn’t show up in strangers on the street. I’d occasionally hear Sam’s laughter in someone else’s chuckle or see a hint of Jake’s familiar walk in another’s stride—reminders, but nothing more. This past year, I lost my dear friend Claire, and just last April, my beloved grandmother, “Nana,” at the impressive age of 94.
Nana was no ordinary grandmother. She detested being called “grandma,” feeling it made her sound old. To her friends, she was known as Patricia, and to her grandkids, she became Nana—a name that soon stuck with everyone. While she had typical grandma traits—collecting quirky memorabilia—she was particularly famous for her extensive assortment of Little Red Riding Hood items. She even dedicated a room in her apartment to the fairy tale, and every gift-giving occasion was an opportunity to add to her collection, with everyone hoping to impress her.
Socializing was her forte; she was the most vivacious person I’ve ever known (my mother follows closely behind). Nana saw every new movie, attended every play, and dined out daily—except on Sundays. When you called in early November to schedule a dinner, you’d find her consulting her planner and offering the earliest available date, often in January.
Her last day unfolded like any other, except for its abrupt conclusion. She wrote a heartfelt letter to Mia, my 8-year-old niece and her great-granddaughter, then enjoyed lunch with her friend, Sue. After returning home with a half-eaten sandwich for Agnes, her housekeeper, she sat down to call Sue to express her gratitude for a lovely outing. They made plans for another gathering, but when Agnes entered moments later, she found Nana sitting on her bed, phone still in hand, already gone—peacefully departed at age 94 on April 16, 2014.
That night, as we were grappling with the loss, something remarkable happened: NASA made a discovery that felt almost otherworldly. My brother sent an email with the subject line, “You won’t believe this!” It turned out that Nana’s passing coincided with a rare astronomical event: Saturn welcomed a new moon, aptly named Peggy.
On that very day, NASA reported, “For the first and perhaps the last time, the Cassini spacecraft has captured a new moon forming within Saturn’s rings. The birth of a moon is a rare phenomenon, and in Saturn’s case, it may never happen again.”
I don’t subscribe to beliefs in an afterlife or heaven. I think our atoms are recycled, merging in a cosmic pot to create new entities—be it sea otters or smartphones. Nana may no longer be physically present, but I find comfort in the notion that her death coincided with the birth of a moon named after her. I like to imagine that in every person I meet and every celestial body I gaze upon, there’s a bit of someone I’ve lost, someone who once loved me.
NASA opened my eyes to a new perspective on life and death, teaching me that they aren’t entirely separate events but part of a continuous cycle. This understanding helps me appreciate why Nana adored fairy tales so much. While she may not be watching over me, it certainly enriches my life to look at the stars and picture her among them.
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In summary, loss can foster a deeper understanding of life’s cycles, with connections to those who have passed remaining alive in various forms. We can find meaning in the universe, considering the potential for loved ones to exist in new ways.