On final chances & week 20 of 52

notes about proofreading, gratitude and not saying goodbye

We rarely know we will be doing something for the last time.

Writers get this opportunity. It’s called a galley. Receiving your galley marks the proofreading stage before a book goes to print. It’s when you add the final polish. It’s meticulous work, and I am grateful I got my forthcoming publication back from my publisher before heading to Italy to teach. There is nothing better than writing and editing on a plane.

Nonetheless, it’s a lot of work. This particular galley is for my forthcoming novel, Chaos Magic (still no publisher for the essays). I’m excited to dive back into this manuscript for the final time before it’s released, and Tony Burnett, my publisher at Kallisto Gaia Press, has done beautiful work with the layout.

There’s pressure associated with knowing this is the last time I’ll get to make changes. Just like when I walk out my door before heading to the airport and I won’t get to go back and double-check if I forgot something. Did I pack my socks? Yes. Underwear? Yes. Chargers and converters? Yes and shit.

The feeling of letting go and risking unfinished business or incomplete tasks is unsettling; it puts the body on high alert, and the mind churns on the “loading” setting—the way it might when you can’t quite place a name.

But the truth is, we don’t always know.

Unfinished business was a theme in my younger life, and it was more intense than forgetting a toiletry item or misplacing a comma.

Not long ago, I wanted to write about a mentor I’d lost contact with. I began to research online, hoping I could find her. What I found was a tribute page to her memory.

This woman, S., was gone and all that remained, for me, was an invitation to plant a tree in her name, which I did. While we had not been close for years, I’d missed the opportunity to say goodbye to her. I had no idea that the last time we spoke would be the last time.

Photo by Mert Yüce

Unfinished business is not the same as regret. It feels like something you haven’t yet completed, a to-do that has not been checked. One of my social to-dos was to reach out to this woman after I returned to Ohio, but nothing about it felt urgent. We hadn’t spoken in over a decade, so I thought I had time.

Now, I wonder at these moments or missed possibilities often. S., to me, was someone I hadn’t found the maturity to appreciate when I knew her. Now that I have it, I can only plant a tree.

In my early twenties, I began a long journey centered on healing. I didn’t know this, but I was on the verge of changing everything about my life, and like many people on a healing journey, I was very self-centered (one needs to be, to be fair). I was drawn to therapy, yoga, and meditation. I began to write introspectively and ask the hard, philosophical questions in fiction and with a slow-growing group of new friends.

I was also broke, and emotionally fragile. I was working at a drugstore and self-conscious about my smile, a smile I wanted to fix. But I was good at customer service and kind to people.

When S. struck up a conversation one day, I felt special. She was taking an interest in me, wondering why I worked at the drugstore and if I had ever thought of trying another line of work. We began to speak regularly when she’d pick up her prescription, and she’d always ask me questions about my ambitions (I wasn’t yet sure what they were).

She’d tell me about her family, and I’d listen. We became friends.

One thing led to another, and S. offered me a job at her hair salon as the receptionist. She paid me more than the drugstore and offered flexible hours. I loved it. And as I got to know my friend and mentor better, I learned that more was possible for me. More as in: life didn’t have the look the way it did then forever.

S. was in her early 60s, and her humor was irreverent. She was completely at home in her skin, which modeled a new possibility.

When S. first invited me to her house, I was shocked. She was very wealthy, which confused me because she spoke like someone who lived somewhere like where I did. I remember shaking when I first shook her husband’s hand and introduced myself to her daughter.

At that point in my life, I was living in a battered little apartment near a goth-themed nightclub. When S. came to pick me up for work one day, she suggested I try living somewhere else.

Me, early 20s, rarely smiling

Before I knew it, yet again, S. was investing in me.

She offered to rent me a room in her house for next to nothing so I could save. I lived with S. for almost a year and worked at her salon, and we became closer, almost like family. But over the years, I wanted to attend community college and reclaim my independence. After I moved out on my own, we slowly lost touch; when I reached out, she seemed angry I’d left but not entirely closed off.

S. was more complicated than the benevolent mentor figure, but without going into that story, I will say that I loved her. I love her. I tried to get back in touch with S. once when I lived in San Antonio, but I couldn’t get ahold of her. When I came back to Ohio, I figured I’d try again. I never did.

I thought I had time.

But when I was finally ready to have the conversation I hadn’t been able to find the words for before, when I was finally ready to thank her and tell her how much her support meant at a time when I could barely see past my nose, she was gone.

I would love to tell her how much I smile now.

The unfinished or the things forgotten or put off to another day will not always be there. I may arrive in Italy with no bras, and Chaos Magic might have a glaring error on page 14. I have no way of knowing.

Here’s what I do know:

• I know this trip will be met with presence.

• I am thankful for the opportunity to write this post and maybe connect with you. Thank you for being here.

• Chaos Magic may or may not be my final published book, but I’ll read and proofread it carefully.

• I will forget something on my travels. I always do.

• If nothing else, I’ll make it a point to appreciate every smile and offer mine to others—even those not yet ready to receive it (see pic above).

Thanks, S.

AYTL prompt: Treat one ordinary and everyday interaction with a loved one as though it could be the last time.

Writing prompt: Write about what happened.