My husband sent a text: "Oh no.”
I replied: “??”
He sent the headline:
Diane Keaton, dead at 79.
My lungs stopped mid-breath.
I was already lying in bed, my seven-year-old asleep beside me.
And just like that, I imagined my baby's life after I’m gone.
What it will feel like for her.
What it will feel like to know that someone you love,
someone you never expected to disappear,
is suddenly already gone.
I used to think of Diane Keaton as someone who belonged to my daughter.
One of Petra’s go-to films is Father of the Bride.
I’ve come downstairs in the middle of the night,
and found her half-asleep watching it.
There’s a good chance she’ll be watching it again,
the night I die.
That’s how I met Diane.
Late.
Through her late work.
Through movies my daughter plays for comfort.
Only later did I realise:
she was in The Godfather.
Of course she was.
She adopted children.
She took photos of doorways and empty shops.
She had pets.
She was a mother.
She was an artist.
She lived a full life.
And now she’s dead.
And all over Instagram, people are performing.
Performing grief.
Performing tribute.
Performing their own relevance.
But grief is not a performance.
Grief is breath that doesn’t fill.
Grief is what you feel in the dark,
next to your sleeping child,
when you know that one day
she’ll be the one
placing your name in a headline.
Not everyone needs to post.
Not everyone needs to say something.
But if you do,
say it while they’re still alive.