Rachel, it’s been a year since I heard your voice. As I was sniffling and sneezing, horrifying customers with my allergies as the coronavirus became more and more real.
“It’s going to be fine, did you have some lasagna?” You looked at me. You were smiling. Everytime we talked, you were smiling. When you were telling me about how your son’s father was going to stop by, about the crazy neighbors you had, the plans you set to reinvigorate our cafe, for every trouble you shared with me and every bright moment we had together, you always smiled.
I keep trying to make a lasagna that’s as good as yours. I think of you with every bagel sandwich I order, every coffee I make at home. I think of your smile when I take a sip of my latte, I think of how your eyes lit up when I’d shuffle to the back for a new drink to try.
“Don’t be so down on yourself, it’s good!”
Rachel, I miss you so much. My life would be different if you were still here. I’d still have my friends, my job, I’d have more confidence that came from how proud you were every time I told you about something I’ve done.
Rachel, it’s so unfair. So many people have passed but I never knew it could happen to you. You are a life force that transcends what life means. You were the foundation of everything I wanted to be. Strong, self-assured, brave, proud. You were everything a perfect chef wants to be. Organized, headstrong, creative, spontaneous. You were everything a perfect mother could be. Open, thoughtful, compassionate, loud. You were everything that a COVID victim wasn’t supposed to be: healthy, careful.
When I got the call in April, I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t. For so long you’ve been a little voice that lives in my head, every chance I had to falter I’d imagine you in the kitchen, giving me advice as you always would when service slowed down and we’d get a chance to talk.
“Mija I don’t get it, if you wanna do it, do it. Who’s stopping you but yourself?”
“Listen, I know you’re not stupid so I can trust you not to do that, because that’s stupid”
Rachel, you still inspire me. The grief that pounded on my chest for 3 months straight pushed me into therapy. I learned how to cope. How to be kind. My therapist would sit with me as I panicked and cried, as I gasped for air she would coach me on how to find myself again. But I still heard your voice.
“Dude, seriously? It’s not your fault.”
Rachel, I don’t want to believe that you’re gone. I want to get a text tomorrow from you that says “I can’t believe you wrote about me, weirdo! thank u.”
What hurts me the most is knowing that I rarely said this to your face. I think you knew how I felt, you were my kitchen mom. You were THE shoulder to cry on, you were THE person who would hang our accomplishments on the fridge. The person who knew how to make everyone smile. The person who loved through food.
Our last words to each other were “I love you. I’m going to miss you.”
I remember the hug you gave me after I told you I was leaving for spring break. That the soonest we’d see each other would be the end of March.
Rachel, I wish I could’ve taken you that day. I would’ve hid you from the world, protected you from the transmission of the virus that killed you. I would’ve done things better.
“He’s a keeper, you know. I really liked him.” You said, after my boyfriend came to visit the summer before. Maybe it was you that cancelled my flights and pushed us to move in together. Maybe it’s you that’s been protecting me and all of our other cafe family members.
Rachel, I know you can hear me.
I don’t know what death means, but I know that the extra boost I feel from making excellent food is your smile radiating. I know that the accomplishments I’ve had feel better, because I feel your hug and I can see the happy dance you’d do when things really went your way.
Rachel, I never knew I’d speak of you in the past tense. Maybe 20 years from now when we’d be distant memories of each other, waxing poetic to our inner circle about how we made a home out of a cafe on Washington street. I never knew that you wouldn’t be around.
Rachel, I love you. I miss you. You are my best friend. I’m an entire time zone away from our first and last meeting place, but you’re in my heart always.
Rachel, I know you can hear me. Thank you for listening.
