Life, Death and Intertextuality

Intertextuality, but make it people: the shaping of a person’s life by another life.

In Zee’s case, Maya Angelou’s most well-known quote is entirely true.

You don’t remember meeting Zee, and you barely remember your conversations — just images and moments of warm feelings and realisations.

Here is Zee refusing to join in on a joke where you’re laughing at someone else.

Here she is looking over your story proposal and asking,

Here she is studying your writing and gently telling you it needs work. She tells you that the highest she’d give it at the moment is 60%, which is honestly more than you were expecting, but you don’t say that.

Here she is listening to your goals and nodding approvingly. “Women should have options,” she says.

When you mention that you feel behind because your degree is in illustration rather than cultural studies, she hands you an enormous file of printouts the next time she sees you — an entire year’s worth of narratology slides, taken from her own lectures.

“To get you up to speed,” she says.

You feel so proud and worthwhile holding that file.

Here she is quietly listening to your ideas.

Here she is nodding as you tell her about how difficult your coordinator is being.

Here she is delighted with a plot point in your story.

There are three times Zee has held your hands. The first is when you are crying because you’ve decided to quit honours. The second is when she runs into you a year after you’ve left and the third is when you see each other in a restaurant in Mt. Lawley. Every time, she holds both of your hands with both of hers. She always looks at you with a furrowed brow and asks if you’re okay, and she always asks more than once. Because she asks more than once, because it is Zee, every time, you almost say: “My uncle died. I was assaulted. It was too much and that’s why I quit.”

But because it is Zee and you don’t want to burden her, you say, “I’m doing really well.” (You’re not.) “I’m still writing stories.” (You aren’t.)

In the grieving process, it’s very common for the dead to be elevated in memories as being more good than they really were, more trustworthy and kind and loveable. You know this, and you miss her, so you go over your memories to try and find some small flaw so she can be more human and you can miss her less. This obviously doesn’t work. The amount that you knew Zee was a sweet spot: close enough for genuine and stable care, but short and professional enough that you never angered or disappointed each other. There are no opportunities for anything else now — no matter how much you’d like her advice sometimes, you can only see her here, in your head, never again in her office or the city or walking through the university gardens. So, instead of picking your memories apart, now you’re grateful just to have them.

Here she is at her office desk waiting for you.

Here she is, smiling.

From what you’ve heard, Auntie is the only person who didn’t cry at Uncle’s funeral. Instead, she smiled and comforted and chastised people gently for crying too hard. She has an unwavering belief in the afterlife, and to her it’s a fact that Uncle is waiting for her there. She shows no impatience at all about seeing him again soon. You, however, don’t believe in this, so nothing shields you from your grief when it finally comes.

You can’t open a jar and no-one else is home, so you walk across the road and give it to Uncle, who opens it for you.

You can’t open a jar and no-one else is home, so you walk across the road and give it to Uncle, who opens it for you.

You can’t open a jar and no-one else is home, so you walk across the road and give it to Uncle, who opens it for you.

You can’t open a jar and no-one else is home, so you walk across the road and give it to Uncle, who is sick, but opens it for you anyway.

You can’t open a jar and no-one else is home, so you walk across the road and give it to Uncle, who is sick. He takes the jar and gently explains to you that the secret behind opening a tightly-sealed jar is to turn it upside-down and knock the lid against something hard. He uses the handle of a butterknife to show you, adding that a table corner works just as well.

These days, you write your essays and stories by yourself. You know you can open all of your own jars, but whenever someone else does it for you, it’s a nice reminder.