No matter what happens, with you I’ll stay

When I decided to come to Sierra Leone, I had no idea that this incredible country would hold such an intense, deeper meaning for me. I had no idea it would gently push me to look at my past and connect me to pieces of it that I’ve tried so hard to hold at arms’ length and contain for two thirds of my life. I had no idea that a place I have fallen in love with would hold such a deep significance to much younger, very wounded parts of me.

Backtracking almost two decades, when I was 8 years-old, one of my closest friends from preschool died suddenly in a car accident. We had somewhat grown apart at this point because of distance and new schools, but Lindsay-Grace’s death still shook me to my core. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that someone so young, kind, energetic, and full of life could be gone, just like that. Seventeen years later, it still doesn’t make sense.

There are lots of little ways I’ve stayed connected to Lindsay-Grace over the years. January 18^th, the anniversary of the day she died, is burned into my brain. Her memorial playground is 5 minutes from my house in Maryland and I still go there in the evenings sometimes if I want space to be outside and think on my own, but not be totally alone. I still listen to the song her dad’s band played at her funeral, which is where I pulled the title of this post from. And finally, I reconnected with her parents on Facebook a few years ago. Her mom and I message occasionally and when she found out that I was here doing my master’s research, she told me that one of the ways they chose to remember Lindsay-Grace after she died was to start a relief fund for children in Sierra Leone.

That stopped me dead in my tracks. Of all the countries in the world, what were the odds? I mean, it’s not like Sierra Leone is that high up on the list of most visited countries in the world. Upon hearing my plans, I’d say 75% of people responded with something like, “that sounds super cool, but what’s Sierra Leone?”. And yet, I somehow found myself 3,500 miles from home, sitting in the middle of the rainforest in a country that had a very real connection to the beautiful friend I lost in 2003.

Naturally, I’ve thought a lot about her since learning about that connection. In a way, it’s been really cathartic and oddly calming, probably even more so given the current chaos of the world. Feeling close to her has been somewhat of a source of stabilization, which has really helped me navigate being in a foreign country, still unsure of when I get to go home, in the midst of a global pandemic.

Some days thinking about and feeling Lindsay-Grace has hit me harder than others. The past few days, for instance, I’ve thought about her pretty much nonstop. Early this week, her mom sent me a digital copy of the book she and Lindsay-Grace’s dad wrote a few years ago. I read it in one sitting, stopping only to go to the bathroom once or twice. Then I just sat with the memories that came up for a little while. Most of these were very brief snapshots, like the coat my dad wore to the funeral or the pattern of the couch I refused to look away from after my parents told me. They weren’t really new memories either; they were little glimpses I’d revisited a lot. But something about sitting there thinking about them in Sierra Leone felt a little different.

I think part of power of this place might be that it’s a fresh connection to her, one that I had no idea existed. Like I said, the memories I have, both of her and things that link me to her, are old and I’ve spent years poring over them. But I think learning that there are still new ways, new corners of the world that have her touch makes my relationship with her feel more real and dynamic. It’s a different way of feeling her presence and a very powerful one at that.

The ones that love us never truly leave us.

J.K. Rowling