Dreams of Livvy's Paris

No one teaches you how to walk through grief, nothing can prepare you for the pain that comes from a memory of the person you loved so dearly. Memories appear as a smile throughout the day and loss of air in your lungs late at night as you try to understand how they are no longer here. Livvy died at the end of 2019 and the months following were dark and lonely and hard. The world seemed to slowly fall apart. The days passed and every morning I would wake up and think of my sweet cousin. 

When COVID-19 caused shutdowns and mass hysteria and panic in the world, I thought of Livvy and how intrigued she would be by it all. As a reporter and journalist, she would have so much to write about it. I wonder what she would say, what she would do? Would she stay in Virginia and report on what was happening in her new hometown? Would she start a blog and write about the perspective of people all over the world, interviewing friends in Paris? Would she move home to Minnesota and write from there? Maybe take a job at one of the publications she used to write for. Her family waiting with baited breath for her newest article to share and comment on. 

I dream of Livvy almost every night. I see her and I know she’s gone. She doesn’t talk to me in these dreams; she just appears. One night, I asked someone in my dream if they saw her too. I asked them if they thought I was crazy for seeing her everywhere, even though I know she’s not here. It doesn’t scare me, it’s comforting almost, but at the same time, it leaves me feeling emptier and lonelier than the day before. 

Life moves on and it doesn’t seem to get easier. 2020 has shown us that. But while the world seems to fall apart, I know that Livvy would be finding stories of hope amidst all of this. So much love and empathy for people all over the world. Stories of love and joy through this pain the whole world seems to be feeling. Livvy understood this anxiety that has a chokehold on all of us, so well. She was so open in sharing how she got through the days that seemed impossible because of it. I miss Livvy and her light and love and hope, her endless hope.  

I miss the advice Livvy would give, as if she already knew what you were thinking, ready to take your thoughts and put a plan in place around it. Knowing what you really wanted but were too scared to say. I miss how she challenged me to thrive in the discomfort and mundane of what I thought life was. She was jealous of my ease in moving constantly while I craved a sense of normalcy.

I think often of Paris and the time I spent with her there. I slept on the couch in her tiny flat across from the bakery, Paul, minutes walk from Notre-Dame. My first night with her, we got falafel around the corner, picked up prosecco and macaroons, and headed to the Eiffel Tower to see it light up at 9pm. I teared up, in awe of this structure I’d only seen in pictures, amazed that this was where my cousin lived and that I was experiencing her new city with her. We sat on the steps and watched the glittering lights, observed the locals and tourists, the pushy men trying to sell us souvenirs. We stayed until our eyes were heavy and our bodies were ready for sleep. I was tipsy from the prosecco, or maybe from the beauty of the night. In mere hours I, like my cousin, had fallen in love with this city. 

We spent days wandering her Paris and talking. While she worked during the day, I got lost on the streets, only finding my way when I found the Seine to walk along and take me back to her flat. At night, we cooked dinner with her roommates and friends. It was a calm and quiet trip of good food and long conversations. We talked about the future, got lost in museums and shared pieces of writing with each other. 

The whole time I was there, it was unusually sunny and warm and it seemed to give all of Paris a good mood and smiles on faces. Livvy loved the sun and blue skies, so we sat outside on benches and soaked it in. After five perfect and beautiful days in that magical city with my cousin, I had to go back to London. At 5:30am, I went into her room, woke her up, hugged her goodbye and left for the train station. It’s been a year since then and that was the last hug I would get from her. 

Livvy lives in my memories of Paris, she lives in the sunbeams that warm my skin and bring a smile to my face. In bouquets of flowers that I buy for myself, just because. Livvy lives in my writing, in the words I spell out and in the editing process that she used to be involved in. 

Olivia will always be with me. There is hope and joy still. She spread too much joy to leave us without any, she left it scattered around the world. Her joy is found in the mountains of Virginia, in lakes and cabins and the Twin Cities in Minnesota, in the streets of Paris and the people there, in the sun and sea in Greece, in the tulip fields in the Netherlands and in parks found in central London. 

While I spend my days unemployed, social distancing in a small apartment, I think of her, I write, I dream of returning to Paris, returning to my last moments with her. Dreams of prosecco and macaroons and the Eiffel Tower at night. Dreams of cooking at home and wine and crossword puzzles. Dreams of windows looking out to Parisian streets and getting fresh, hot baguettes before dinner. And every day I search for small joys. Small joys that Livvy would find, humorous moments throughout the day, to make light of the heavy situation we are all in. I find joy for Livvy.