REMINDERS WE ARE NOT IMMORTAL / NICOLE CODIANNI

REMINDERS (WE ARE NOT IMMORTAL)

WORDS NICOLE CODIANNI VISUALS HADLEY BREAULT

I no longer worry about what is going to happen when I die. Any questions about the circumstances of my death, I have grown to realize, are futile. It is going to happen, whether today, tomorrow, or in thirty years. It is going to happen to me, and to you, whether we like it or not. The truth is, I don’t care to figure it out.

We are given a life; we are not guaranteed it.

It is quite simple to reconcile with this. While we are not truly alone, we remain singular in this fact, for your days are numbered differently than mine.

And so, I’ve spent the rest of my time noticing the reasons as to why we cannot go on forever. The following is what I have found. These are the reminders—

That this world waits for no one. That with our unpromised existence, we are given what we need. We retain the moments where we remember how fragile, precious and porcelain the seconds are. Where we pause when a loved one speaks, cries, stumbles, laughs. There is no telling what will occur when we die, but we know what happens as we live.

And while I don’t wish for it, I feel great relief in knowing that one day we will no longer continue.

We are not immortal.

The day I am born. Mom sobbing in the hospital room. Grandma and the ice chips. Dad fainting. Fluorescent light on all of their foreheads. Mom picking my outfits for school, most of them corduroy. Legs dangling from the monkey bars. Crayon-written letters to the North Pole. Abuela’s perfume surrounding her coffin. Paint brushes and palettes that I am not allowed to touch. Growing tomatoes in the backyard. Learning to use the big-kid scissors on blue construction paper. Copper-haired Grandma. Sunny side-up for breakfast. Dad’s laughter. Sirens. Police trying to ring the bell even though it’s broken. Swimming in the ocean. Police knocking on the front door. My sister’s first words. Beer bottles, broken glass reflecting onto the sunroom’s wood. Holding Dad’s belt loop as we cross the street. Preferring him over Mom. The tire swing in the backyard, built by Dad. Flies eating the fallen fruit in the grass. My first kiss. Yellow candles on my birthday cake. Realizing Dad is home, now, all-the-time. Hand turkeys. Falling off my bicycle, blood on the knees.

Discovering Dad was actually let go. A goldfish I won at the carnival, swimming in the bowl. Needles. Melted ice-cream in the fancy china. Trains. Grandma’s surgery, scars on her legs. Hurricane Sandy. Mom’s ruined watercolors. Running out of hot water, electricity, heat. The Christmas candles being lit in October. The fish upside down in the tank. Flushing him down the toilet, flushing it all down the toilet. An anxiety attack in the Kohl’s clearance section. Strands of my hair on the carpet. Roombas. Sunburn. Publishing my first poem. Dad leaving his new job in the city. Grandma putting presents under the tree. Hydrangeas at the funeral. Nightmares. An empty plastic chair at high school graduation. Grandma’s curls, now silver. Dad asleep, in a tux and on the couch without a blanket; covering him with the family quilt. The dog, eating the pet rabbit. Biting my nails until there is red.

Blowing him instead of the flowers. Counseling. Grandma, pouring her coffee, calling herself a snowbird. The rebuilt boardwalk. Joan Didion. Mom still holding my hand at the doctor’s office. Pale latex gloves. Crinkly paper atop a medical recliner. Roses at a funeral. Panic in a bathroom stall. Dad’s thin frame, waiting for me in the entryway. Mom’s swollen fingers. Her easel on the back porch. Movie theatres. Our first words, exchanged over Instagram DM. Noticing my hair growing back. Velvet couches in my therapist’s office. Another lover, leaving, walking out the door. Realizing Santa’s handwriting has always been Grandma’s. My first time. Forgetting to turn off the oven. Understanding why Dad and I are sad, quiet, half-full. The dog, never eating again.

Mom’s turquoise jewelry. Telling extended family I’m going to be a writer; witnessing the

“WE RETAIN THE MOMENTS WHERE WE REMEMBER HOW FRAGILE, PRECIOUS AND PORCELAIN THE SECONDS ARE. WHERE WE PAUSE WHEN A LOVED ONE SPEAKS, CRIES, STUMBLES, LAUGHS. THERE IS NO TELLING WHAT WILL OCCUR WHEN WE DIE, BUT WE KNOW WHAT HAPPENS AS WE LIVE.”

horror on their faces. Thumb wars with Dad. Getting him help. Baby teeth in a plastic box, sitting on Mom’s dresser. Breaking up with him in his favorite restaurant. Humming a lullaby as I drive down the Robert Moses. The Shawshank Redemption each December. Needles, again. Thinking of downing the Guinness before Dad can. The blue eyes of my college roommate. Norm Macdonald. Watching him twist the ring on his middle finger. Crying as it thunderstorms. Remembering the waves that destroyed the street, the backyard, the town. Grandma’s earrings. Taking someone’s virginity. The smell of acrylic paint. A bob cut. Dad disappearing, for some days at a time. Failing my driver’s test. Skinny dipping in the sea.

Returning home to Boston. Dad returning to work. Letting Dad know, before I go, he is my best friend. His laughter, a second time. The whir of an MRI machine. FaceTiming Grandma. Buying corduroy jeans that don’t quite fit my thighs. Nightmares, only once in a while. Mom’s painting in the bedroom closet. Hanging it up when she visits. His arched back while he plays the piano. My palms covering my old handprints. Not going to New York for the holidays. Candlepin. Strands of me in his sheets. Seeing the little moons of my fingernails. Riding a BlueBike without directions. Worrying about what will become of us. Mom tucking my hair behind my ear, telling me not to smile with teeth. Grandma promising me it is alright. Dad’s head buried into my shoulder. Writing this down, writing all of this down.