Back in autumn 2022, a friendly face from a previous life reached out over email with an irresistible ask: Would I like to contribute to a DIY publishing project? I knew Flora Yin Wong from the London music scene of the late ’00s, when mp3 blogs made the rules and every gig flyer had a Myspace URL on it. In the years since, she’d become an acclaimed artist in her own right and was now pouring her energy into launching a new hybrid music and book publishing entity called Doyenne. I am grateful to be one of the writers, poets, and musicians that Flora invited to contribute. The first issue was inspired by the idea of music and musicians being in communication with the afterlife through ritual. Where to go with that prompt was left very open. At the time, I was three months pregnant with my son. I should’ve been enjoying the sweet release from morning sickness’s grip but was instead consumed by second-hand fear that my unborn child was somehow at risk because of my big old age of 43. The medical industrial complex sure knows how to heap on judgement in the guise of well-meaning concern. Something deep inside of me called bullshit and set me free. That’s how I ended up writing this short piece about a dream visit I had from a loved one who passed on many years ago. I can’t wait to tell my very lively son Kai about his great grandma one day. Thank you Flora!
Irene
She had an earworm laugh that easily consumed her whole being. Her words collapsed in on themselves, morphing into a high pitched titter before releasing as a wheeze. I’d do anything to get her going. As a kid, I often pretended I was going to brush her silver perm because I knew it was off-limits. Stiff with hairspray, nothing out of place. Teasing her became a game that left us both in fits.
When I was older, I called her up to share revealing details about my life in London, things I wouldn’t tell my parents, and she rasped with delight. I framed everything for laughs: annoying things my boyfriend did, the pointlessness of the copywriting I did to pay rent, stray opinions about self-interested politicians. There was no judgement, no advice, only the irresistible sound that burst out of her and into me; like nothing deserved to be taken seriously except our shared release. She didn’t care what I told her, she just wanted me to keep going.
It wasn’t until she was close to the end that I understood what we meant to each other. On a family weekend away, in a cottage in the English countryside, we shared a room because I was the only person allowed to see her without her teeth. From the waist up, she looked like a baby bird. The rest of her was swollen with fluids that her system had long stopped being able to drain. “You’re my best friend,” she said and I broke down.
Every other memory I have of her is soundtracked by her laughter. It plays in my head when I think of her face. Can a laugh be a song? A spontaneous composition performed by the human voice, one that echoes in the body the way old records do.
This past summer, I needed her more than I consciously knew. Everything was changing and nothing about it was funny. In the middle of the heatwave, she came to me in a dream. That’s never happened to me before. It’s been over 15 years since I’d seen her last and she’d clearly aged backwards. She was wearing a bright orange top and a long red skirt and her hair flowed past her shoulders. I caught her up on my news and her gravelly laugh rattled through me as she held me close. Then I asked if she was doing the dating apps — it might be fun to have a cup of tea with a gentleman — and she wheezed so hard I thought she might die twice. I still had her laugh in my head when I woke up. I took it as a sign. A song from someplace else to guide me home, a reminder that this plane is only bearable if you can let go of things together.
Ruth Saxelby 