The Sisterhood
Author’s note: I first published this post a year ago and have decided to repost it as my sisterhood will be gathering this week for another funeral: the funeral of our beloved alma mater, Wells College. This is the first time in my life that I have mourned a place, and the heartache I and my sisters are feeling is just as painful as the loss of a loved one. So, we will gather, and we will laugh and cry and hold each other up the way we always have and always will, and hopefully enough of the magic of this place that is the embodiment of all of us, that has been our touchstone for all of our adult lives, hopefully that magic will seep into our veins and carry us through the rest of our days.
Fare Wells with loyal hearts, thy daughters ever sing…
It is a hard day. I can’t say it is the hardest, because over the past two years there have been many indescribably hard days; but this day is different. I am somehow both numb and raw, exhausted and wired, heartbroken and relieved. I have donned the black dress and the waterproof makeup. I have loaded my purse with tissues and breath mints and filled my hydro flask with whiskey. I tuck these things onto a chair behind me and step into my place in line, flanked on each side by one of my sisters. Screens are projecting images of my mother when she was young and happy and alive. There hasn’t been much time to consider who will be attending the calling hours. The past two years have been an unending marathon, the finish line elusive and unwanted. Given the choice, I would have kept running forever if it meant this day would never come, but the universe has a way of reminding us that we have no control over these things; no control over anything.
It is sunny outside, though I have no way of knowing this. The room is windowless, muting any sense of time, weather, or season. The attendant alerts us that they will begin allowing people in. The line is stretching into the parking lot and snaking down the sidewalk. I take a quick swig of my whiskey and brace myself for what is to come. I squeeze my sisters’ hands, then watch as the first condolence givers make their way toward us.
As the room fills with people, I recognize many of them, though I struggle to remember names. Until my mother’s illness, I hadn’t spent much time “back home”. It has been more than twenty years since I lived in the little tight-knit community where I was raised, and even though I never really felt like it was my community, I am grateful for it; not just now, as hundreds of its members flock to pay their respects, but for the support they have provided during my mother’s illness. Meal deliveries, companionship, rides to doctor’s appointments, help on the farm, a listening ear…the innumerable ways, big and small, in which people came out of the woodwork to offer assistance somehow made the unbearable easier to bear. My father has lived here all of his life and has maintained the same group of friends since childhood. They have seen him at his best and at his worst. Either way, they show up.
While I love where I now live and have a wonderful group of friends there, I recognize that it’s different from this. In my town I am “from away” as are many of my friends. It’s a different feeling, more insular. I have only truly experienced being part of a community like this at my tiny women’s college. Ever since, I have longed for that feeling of safety and acceptance, where I carried my flaws openly among the strong, smart, fierce, women who had seen me at my best and also my worst.
Those college days were filled with a type of support I had never known before. As we wrestled our way through the work of self-discovery, of healing from childhood traumas, of finding our voices and our passions, of growing into adults, we lifted each other up, we left ourselves vulnerable, we spoke without fear of judgement or misinterpretation. And, by God, did we laugh. Perhaps that is what I now longed for most: the laughter. There hadn’t been much of that these past two years.
They had reached out, of course, my wonderful “sisters” from college. I had received so many texts and cards and messages that my heart was full. I felt their love. I knew they were there with me in spirit; that even though we were geographically spread across the country, and that we spoke sporadically and saw each other even less, that they were thinking about me today wherever they were.
And then I hear a familiar, distinctive laugh and my eyes flick down the line, catching sight of a face I have not seen in years. And then I see another, and another. Women who had driven hours after a long day of work; who had flown halfway across the country; who had made childcare arrangements, and taken vacation time, and missed baseball games and dinner with their families. The tears start flowing. I cannot stop them now. My carefully crafted composure is gone. I am right back to being my flawed, vulnerable, kooky self. I don’t have to pretend to be strong. My college sisters are here. I am safe. They are carrying my burden with me, and even though I knew they were holding me up from afar, having them here somehow makes all the difference.
There are at least a dozen of them. I hug each of them in turn and at great length, soaking in the feel of them, breathing in their scents. One of them, winking, asks me where the whiskey is, smelling it on my breath. The waiting crowd pushes them onward, away from me. More than five hundred people have come and we are beyond the three-hour mark. It is overwhelming, this outpouring. I am grateful, but I feel panicked. I need to see my friends. They have come all this way. Those few moments in line- it’s not enough. I need to be with them; to gain strength from them, to be in their presence. I try to keep track of them as they continue down the line past my husband, my brothers-in-law, my aunt, and my father. I am quickly consumed by the continuous throng of people who have generously waited for hours to pay their respects, but I am desperate for my friends; for the community I have longed for since graduating nearly two decades ago. I don’t want them to leave. Not yet.
I have panicked needlessly. A break in the crowd reveals them. They have pulled chairs into a circle in the center of the room, directly in my line of vision. They are sitting, and talking, and laughing, quietly at first, then more raucously as time passes. This is our way. When we are together, it is impossible not to find humor, no matter the situation. Their presence buoys me. They wait. They wait until the line is gone, and my duties are finished, and they gesture toward the empty chair they have saved for me. I collapse, feet throbbing, eyes puffy, limbs heavy. I am smiling. I am grateful. Nothing could have gotten me through this awful day better than they did.
I don’t live in my community. I carry my community with me. It is a sisterhood that shows up without being asked; a sisterhood that stays because they know it is needed; a sisterhood that makes even the most horrible situation better. It lives within me and has for nearly 30 years, now. It’s hard to explain this bond. When I try, I fall short. I wind up sounding like someone longing for her glory days back in college. But that isn’t it at all. The words that would truly give it meaning remain ever out of reach.
At the funeral the next day, someone asks me, “Who were all those cackling women sitting in a circle at the calling hours?”
I chuckle “My college sisters,”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Amazing.”
“That was only a some of them,” I say.
“You are very lucky.”
I nod in agreement while feeling that “lucky” is an understatement when it comes to this topic. And while I am cursing the universe for the tremendous loss it has dealt me, I am also praising it for giving me such a tremendous gift. A life without sisters, both blood and chosen, is a lonely place, and thankfully, one I know I shall never have to experience. A tremendous gift, indeed. Thank you, sisters.