There is a blissful moment of confusion as I wake and prop myself up on my elbows. My mother and father both sit at the edge of my bed, a sight I haven’t seen since I was a young child being coaxed to sleep. My dad’s expression is unreadable, but my mother is crying.
“Holly died.” I say, though my words feel hollow. My mother nods.
There was some discussion of funeral arrangements that I must have been present for, though I can’t recall having. I am only able to remember the months following her death in snapshots. My mother was crying at the end of my bed. Then I stared blankly at the ceiling fan where Holly’s little brother, who is the same age as mine, had found her. At the funeral the pastor said she was in a better place, one without us. In every snippet of my waking memory, I was reminded that Holly had died.
Holly died on March 21st, in 2018. It is difficult to describe, to those who haven’t experienced the same intensity of grief, that 7 years ago time stopped. To me, today’s date is still March 21st, 2018. I return to the past every morning, always a little too late to change anything.
On March 19th and the morning of March 20th, Holly and I had our last text exchange,
“I love you.” Holly, 6:26pm.
“I love you more.” Me, 6:26pm.
“Hey, are you okay?” Me, 11:28am.
“No.” Holly, 11:29am.
“I’m sorry Holly, do you want to talk about it?” Me, 11:36am.
A week prior I had sat in my therapist’s office and told her that I believed my best friend was going to attempt suicide again. She set a pouch of lavender in my palm and told me that I was catastrophizing. She led me through a breathing exercise and told me to ground myself with the scent of the pouch when I felt anxious.
So, on March 20th, at 11:36am I dug the pouch out from under my pillow and breathed in the sweet floral scent. I sucked in breaths as I waited for a reply. My phone shook in my hand. I set the pouch down and dialed 911, my thumb hovered unsure over the call button. I set my phone down and put the pouch back over my face. I tempered these waves of panic until I fell into a fretful sleep that night. While I tried to ground myself, Holly tied a noose. While I breathed deeply, she suffocated.
In her article “Afterlife” Joan Dideon describes how “We do not expect [the shock of grief] to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind”. Holly’s death was unimaginable and for weeks after, I did not cry. I floated, disconnected from my grief. In one of the snippets that I can recall from this haze, I was in my father’s workshop painting a cabinet door. I listened to the only CD I had. It was a mixtape Holly had given me in 2014 for our 8th grade graduation. She had collected each of our friend’s favourite songs for it. Her contribution was Cannibal by Kesha. I had sung along and each time the song ended, I’d dash back to the radio to replay it. After several repeats I leaned back onto my heels and said to myself, “Holly died.” I repeated the words until they dissolved into choked sobs. The song ended and the CD spun on. In the days after, I went to prom and smiled in my high school graduation photos. There was no choice but to keep going, even if time for me had stopped.
In my dreams I called 911 on that day in 2018. These dreams are mundane and in them, Holly has grown older with me.
In one dream, Holly holds a silk dress up to her body and looks to me for my opinion. “It needs more pizzaz. Here, try this one.” I say and push my pick into her hands. It is her unworn prom dress, floor length and blush pink.
“It’s my engagement party, not a quinceanera.”
“Just try it.” I beg.
I am standing so close to her that I can smell her shampoo. Honey scented, with something floral mixed in. I squeeze her arm, and her skin is warm under my palm. I am so proud of her that my eyes get teary.
I woke from that dream the morning of March 2nd, 2025, but not really. In my mind it was March 21st, 2018, as it always is. There is a moment where my vision is bleary before reality blinks into focus. My parents are sitting at the end of my bed. My mother’s eyes are puffy with tears. My dad looks sad, as if for him it is 2001 and he has just been told that his son Matthew committed suicide.
“Holly died.” I say. My dad looks away.
Resources
Donate to the The Canadian Mental Health Association of New Brunswick in honour of Holly
988 Canadian Suicide Crisis Helpline
International Crisis Helplines
Works Cited
Didion, J. (2005a, September 25). After Life. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2005/09/25/magazine/after-life.html
Cover Image
Forain, J.-L. (1909). Sur le lit (On the Bed) [Etching on laid Van Gelder paper]. National Gallery of Art. https://www.nga.gov/artworks/6895-sur-le-lit-bed