I haven’t been back to my hometown of Hampton, GA since my mom died 13 years ago.
There wasn’t much reason to. At that point, everyone in my family had moved away or died, so afterwards, I cleaned out my childhood home, sold it, and left it in the rearview mirror — the way you do when grief and logistics overlap and you just need it to be done.
But last weekend, my daughter had a defensive driving course nearby, and I had a few hours to kill. On a whim, I went back into town. And then, on another whim, I pulled up to the home of my mother’s best friend.
Aside from being my mother’s best friend and my third-grade teacher, she was one of those people who had been woven into the fabric of my life since my family moved to Hampton when I was in kindergarten. My dad was the only doctor in town, which meant our family was never really strangers to anyone. She was no exception.
I showed up at her front door unannounced, the way people used to do. In a world where we now text before we call and calendar before we drop by, I felt slightly guilty about it. She didn’t mind at all.
We sat down and did something people don’t really do anymore: we visited. We talked like no time had passed, and somewhere in the middle of it, she started telling me stories about my parents that I had never heard. My father has been gone for over 30 years. The fact that she could remember anything was already a gift. But these weren’t just memories. They were glimpses into my parents’ lives, their marriage, my dad’s work as a doctor — things I hadn’t thought about in years. Things no one else would have known to tell me.
It filled my bucket in a way I didn’t see coming. And it reminded me of something I experience constantly in this work.
When someone dies, people get nervous about bringing them up. They worry it’ll cause pain or remind you of what you’ve lost. But the people left behind are already aware of the void. They don’t need to be protected from it. What they actually want is for their person to still be part of the conversation.
Clients often ask me about ways to preserve the stories of the people they’ve lost. Sometimes the simplest path is the oldest one: find someone who knew them, and ask.
Call your mom’s college roommate. Stop by your grandmother’s neighbor. Track down the colleague your dad mentioned for thirty years. They’re carrying stories you haven’t heard yet.
You don’t need a platform. You just need to show up at the door.
