Summary:
MEMORIAM: The Art and Letters of Pavithra Judey
Curated by the Museum of Contemporary Hadean Art
Presented by Emilia Spirit
In memory of Pavithra Judey, who should be remembered not for what she did, but for the love with which she did it.
Fandom: Blaseball
Published: 30 October 2021
Word count: 6k
Ao3 link: what's left of the world
Characters: Pavithra Judey, Emilia Spirit, Valery Bam, Maisy Gomes
Relationships: Pavithra/Emilia
Additional Tags: Short Circuits, Gamma 1, Hades Tigers, Atlantis Georgias, Museums, Epistolary
A/N: TGB said “these new guys are going away in six days” and I was like “yeah sure six days is long enough for me to write something.” Endless thanks and love to lofi for talking Tigers with me.
Disclaimer that I am neither an artist nor a curator, so this might not be entirely accurate to or consistent with real life museum practices. To that I say: oops.
Content warnings: major character death
MEMORIAM: The Art and Letters of Pavithra Judey
Curated by the Museum of Contemporary Hadean Art
Presented by Emilia Spirit
In memory of Pavithra Judey, who should be remembered not for what she did, but for the love with which she did it.
#
A letter from the presenter, Emilia Spirit:
What you need to understand is that I am not an artist. I do not understand color theory, or how to make something out of nothing. When I was alive, the days before I became a shade, I was a medium. Even before I was dead, I spoke to ghosts. Everything I did was centered around death, and stillness, and searching for things long gone. I was born of silence and I died in silence, and if it were up to me, I would have been in the silence forever.
Pavithra Judey, though, was the most alive person that I ever met. There is no better way to explain it. She had a way of coaxing more light out of the sun. She had a way of making things brighter simply because she wanted things to be brighter. She was gentle in a way that’s hard to put into words; she was compassionate in a way that will feel like overstatement if I detail it.
When Pavithra passed away, I received a letter and a key to a storage locker. The letter explained that I had inherited the responsibility of coordinating this exhibition. At first, I wanted nothing to do with it. This was partly because, as I mentioned, I am not an artist.
But more importantly, it felt insurmountable. Pavithra Judey was one of the most monumentally creative people I’ve met, one of those people that felt larger than her body. How could I do her justice? How could I fulfill her vision without understanding it?
This is one of two introductions I’ve written. One of them is meant to be like a museum curator. I call her Ms. Judey. I talk about her childhood, and how she began her career as an abstract artist when she was fifteen. I talk about her moving from Delhi to Hades. I talk about how she spent years working as an art therapist in a child psychologist’s office before becoming the first non-native Haden to be featured in a MoCHA exhibit. I talk about her like she is a stranger. This is what you are supposed to do: be detached. Tell anecdotes for the museumgoer’s sake.
But this introduction is for Pavithra. She bought scarves in every city we played. She never figured out how to remove oil paint stains from her jersey and still refused to stop painting in her Tigers jersey. I loved her. I can’t write about her like that isn’t true. If the museum doesn’t want that, then they can write their own introduction.
Memoriam is Pavithra’s final collection. These paintings are intended to be a collection, because unlike their prior work, they are inspired by her experiences as a blaseball player. They began their career on the Hades Tigers before a feedback event sent them to Atlantis. They played for another year on the Atlantis Georgias before their untimely incineration. They were thirty-nine at the time of their death.
In addition to the paintings, Pavithra wrote letters. Most of these were never sent, but some of the subjects of these works have donated letters that they received to be put on display. Several of them also provided comments on the letters, the paintings, and Pavithra.
When I was almost finished with this exhibition, I brought my friend and teammate Valery Bam to see the gallery. He walked through with me, and afterwards turned to me and said, “What do you want people to get out of this?” It was an honest and well-intentioned question, but it gave me pause. What is my goal in making sure that you understand Pavithra Judey as a person, rather than an artist or an athlete?
I don’t have an answer for you, unfortunately. My only hope is that once I die for a second time, I will be remembered kindly, for who I was. I want the same for Pavithra. I want you to know that they wrote letters. I want you to see their sketches. I want you to understand that they are not just a name.
Thank you for coming to Memoriam. I hope you enjoy meeting Pavithra.
#
A letter in a gilded frame. It is the smallest framed object in the room, smaller by far than any of the canvases, but is given the same amount of space as any canvas.
Ms. Judey,
The Museum of Contemporary Hadean Art does not make a habit of delaying exhibitions upon artists’ requests. However, our board has met and agreed that our interest in your proposed new exhibition outweighs the unorthodox nature of your request. Please do not expect us to accommodate your schedule in this way again.
Your new exhibition will open in two years. Do your best to coordinate with our staff. We look forward to displaying your work again.
Signed,
F. Owens
Director of Temporary Exhibitions
Museum of Contemporary Hadean Art
Presenter’s notes:
If you follow blaseball, you likely know that Pavithra Judey hit the first grand slam in history. What you don’t know is that she spent the remainder of the day congratulating everyone else on the team. She congratulated me for being on base. She congratulated every batter, and Valery, who was pitching that game. She even congratulated the pitchers who weren’t pitching.
Pavithra did not tell any of her teammates that she was working on an exhibition. She was exemplary at everything she put her mind to, but she was modest to a painful degree. She loved her work too much to talk about it.
I include this letter because it is the beginning of the exhibit. But more importantly, I want you to see that everyone recognized that she was exceptional. In order to understand Pavithra Judey, you need to understand the way that people treated her. They made exceptions for her. They bent rules. They edged their ways around protocols. She was the kind of person that you wanted to make happy.
The irony, of course, is that efforts like this made her unhappy. Pavithra wanted to be treated just like anyone else. This is a luxury that she was denied.
#
An abstract portrait, primarily in shades of pink. It is only when you stand close that you can see the shape of a face: the gentle curve of a nose, the implication of a chin. The eyes and mouth are obscured by electric blue paint, slashed across the canvas, hiding the details of the features. The blue paint drips through the pink, leaving streaks down the figure’s cheeks.
Melly,
I know it’s weird to write this letter, because I never met you. But I can’t stop thinking about you. You died. I’m sure you know that, if you know anything, but I don’t think any of us realized how very literally life-and-death everything was until you died.
What were you like? I know everyone has been asking your team. It’s been six days since you died, and there are memorials. I wish you didn’t get them. Not because you don’t deserve them. You do. I want everyone to know your name. But I’m worried about the seventh person who dies, or the twelfth, or the thirtieth. Are they going to get memorials? Are we going to grieve this fiercely every time?
I have so many questions for you. The obvious ones, of course — where are you, did it hurt, are you okay — but also for you. I don’t want to remember you as dead. I want to know what Melly is short for. Your favorite color. If your parents are doing okay. If you could cook. I want to know you. I’m so, so sorry that I can’t.
This is all I can give you: I will remember you. Not passively, but whenever I can. I will memorialize you. I will make sure that you are a part of the consciousness and the ethos, not because you died, but because you lived.
With love, with regret,
P. Judey
Presenter’s note:
Melly Ugh was the first casualty of blaseball. They died only three days into the season. Pavithra never spoke about being rattled by their death, but this portrait and letter indicate that she was upset by the situation.
In preparing the exhibit, I reached out to Ethan Noel of the New York Millennials, Melly Ugh’s former team. While he wasn’t able to put me in touch with their family, he was able to answer the questions that Pavithra poses.
Ethan Noel, on Melly Ugh:
I can’t speak to the questions about death, but I can answer the others.
Melly wasn’t short for anything. Their legal name was actually Mel, but they preferred Melly.
Their favorite color was green, that sort of faded khaki green. They always called it sage. I thought it looked like puke, but all their stuff was that color. Coffee mug, clothes, you name it.
Their parents took it hard, but they’ve bounced back as much as any parents can.
Melly could cook, but they didn’t very often. They were a “put a poached in the pre-packaged ramen and call it a day” kind of guy. They liked the shortcuts — flavor packets and pre-made mixes and whatever — but they also knew how to make it taste better. Is that cooking? I think it counts. It’s better than I can do.
Thanks for reaching out, Emilia. We want Melly to be remembered like this too.
#
An abstract acrylic painting. One half is painted in shades of pink and lavender, the other in shades of red and orange. In the center is what looks like an explosion, painted in layers of oil paint. The explosion is primarily white, but there are streaks of every imaginable color inside the explosion.
Presenter’s Note:
The first weather event that affected the Hades Tigers was seventeen days into the season. Our friend, pitcher Bert Keming, was caught in feedback and sent to the Boston Flowers. In return, the Flowers’ pitcher Jenz Follows came to Hades.
This was the first time Pavithra and I spent together outside of a game. I had been meaning to do so for a while, but both of us were upset by the feedback. I remember sitting on the patio of a restaurant, arguing about what color the feedback looked like. I thought it was green, and she was insistent that it was purple. We brought the argument up at our next game, only to discover that every one of our teammates had their own answers.
Jenz Follows said that the feedback had no color. Whether the portrayal of it here as being white and multicolored is a concession to vis answer, I can’t say.
In coordinating this exhibit, I asked both Jenz and Bert for commentary. Jenz declined, but gave me permission to use vis story. Bert provided commentary, below.
Bert Keming, on Pavithra Judey:
I’m not going to say that I was ever close with them. In the grand scheme of it, even with practices, I was only on the Tigers a fraction as long as I was on the Flowers.
But Pav wrote me a letter. I think they sent it to the stadium instead of sending it to me, that first time — they didn’t even have my address. It was pretty bland, honestly. “Did you make it in one piece? Are you okay?” And it’s not like they were the only one who reached out. You texted me, Emilia. That means just as much.
I still have the letters. I’m not sending them over because they’re private, but I have them. We only wrote back and forth a few times. I kind of thought they’d get in touch again after going to Atlantis, but I guess not.
And to your other question: it didn’t look like anything at all. The Flowers asked me too, what color it looked like. But I don’t have an answer. It looked like being one place, and then being another. Sorry that’s not a very artsy answer.
#
4-8. Incomplete Portrait, #1-5
Five abstract portraits, in various stages of incompletion. Each one features splatters of the same bright blue paint that was used in Melly Ugh’s portrait. Not all of the portraits are human, but it is difficult to make out what exactly they are. The first is in shades of green, the second in brown, the third in light grey, the fourth in faded purple, and the last in burgundy. The first is mostly complete, but the series becomes less complete; on the last one, there are pencil lines on the canvas, but the only color comes from the bright blue paint representing incineration.
Accompanying the portraits are five letters, all of which are incomplete. Some of them have sentences, and others are empty other than the headings.
Presenter’s note:
Lyra Hendrix of the Kansas City Breath Mints. Clyde Collection of the Ohio Worms. Butch Mohamed of the Canada Moist Talkers. Chet Wildarms of the Houston Spies. Ziti Anteater of the San Francisco Lovers.
These five portraits are for the next five incinerated players. After these five, Pavithra didn’t start any new portraits. I can only assume that the weight of memorializing everyone came to rest heavier on her shoulders than she expected.
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Nine charcoal drawings on paper, arranged in a 3x3 grid. All nine of the drawings are of Emilia Spirit, a short woman with a messy cheekbone-length bob. The sketches are rough, but it’s easy to make out facial features, as well as a Tigers jersey in most of the sketches.
In order, the nine sketches show:
Valery Bam, on Pavithra Judey and Emilia Spirit:
I don’t think it’s very traditional to get someone else to do the description because you’re too embarrassed. But from what I know about museums, this whole thing is kind of nontraditional already, so I’m going to do it anyways.
In case you haven’t picked up on it, Pav and Ems were dating. They started a few weeks deep into the season. Ems always had that thing about wanting to know Pavithra, really know them, and one thing led to another, and they were mad about each other.
Actually, that’s probably important context. I’ve never met two people who orbited each other like this. I would have conversations with them separately where they said nearly the same things. They understood each other. That’s not tantamount to agreeing on everything, mind; they could argue like nobody else. But there was an undercurrent of love through every single thing they did.
I had to pick out these sketches. Ems came to a game one day, a few weeks after Pav died, and practically threw the sketchbook at me. She told me to look through it and figure out what to do. By then we all knew about the exhibit, and we were doing what we could to help with it. All of us were grieving too, but this was always Ems’s project. Ems-and-Pav, that was how it was. So I was a little surprised that I had to pick something like this.
But it turned out that the sketchbook was all Ems. Cover to cover, it was drawings of Emilia Spirit. They got a little fuzzier after Pav was in Atlantis and they were only seeing each other on video calls and a couple series a year, but it was always Ems.
I talked to Ems about options. We could include one sketch, or a couple, or a lot. These are the only drawings you’re going to see from this book, because neither of us wanted this to be the Ems-and-Pav exhibit. But I thought it was important to have something from that sketchbook. Pav had a couple of sketchbooks, but if you dedicate yourself to drawing one thing over and over, I think that needs to be shared.
There’s one other thing I want to point out. There are probably artsier ways to say this, but I don’t know the words. But you see how it looks like Ems? It’s the same person every time. Pav didn’t really do that. They’d draw blobby things that looked like people if you squinted. Abstract, I think that’s the word.
But Ems? It always looks like Ems. Like Pav couldn’t make her look like anything but herself.
#
Three canvases arranged in a row. The first is red and orange, painted in abstract vertical lines. The second is blank. The third is blue and gold, painted in abstract horizontal lines.
A note from the artist:
E—
It’s three canvases, not just two. Red, blank, blue. It has to be all three.
I love you. I hope you never see this.
—PJ
Presenter’s note:
The above note was found with the three canvases that constitute Schism #2. It was the only direction that came directly from Pavithra, and the only acknowledgement that they might not survive long enough to coordinate this exhibit themself. They did not provide names for the paintings, or a name for the exhibit, only a rough list of what they wanted. I’ve done my best to follow the list, and to supplement it with the letters.
Schism #2 was painted after Pavithra’s feedback to the Atlantis Georgias. They would spend the remainder of their life in Atlantis, save for a few visits to Hades in the offseason.
I was first baseman. They played the outfield. The world blinked green for a second, and I didn’t know what to do. I saw that my jersey was still a Tigers jersey. And then I heard someone hit a home run, and I knew. Pavithra was gone.
They had to run the bases, so they ran past me. She stopped. Just for a moment. Just long enough to whisper, “I’m still here.”
I still don’t understand why they did that.
#
This work is the only non-painting art. It is a sculpture, consisting of trophies, medals, and several certificates. Everything that is metal has been smashed, and everything that is paper has been shredded. The platform is wide, taking up most of the area of the floor, and is raised three or four feet off the ground. There is no barrier cordoning it off, and none of the pieces of the awards are fixed in any way to the platform.
Presenter’s note:
This is based on a conversation Pavithra and I had. At the end of our first season of blaseball, there was some conversation about them being named MVP. While they were outwardly polite, they were distressed at the idea. I can still remember their exact words.
“Emilia,” they said to me, “none of it means anything to me. They’re worth more smashed than they are whole. I don’t need them to value me with awards, I need them to value my life.”
There was a closet in Pavithra’s apartment filled with awards. I only found it after they died. I got in touch with Maisy Gomes, Pavithra’s closest friend on the Georgias, and she discovered a similar apartment in their Hades apartment. With each of our respective teams, we gathered the awards and broke them. The certificates are shredded. The trophies are smashed. I can’t speak to what the Georgias did, but Val brought a sledgehammer, and a lot of us worked out some problems.
You’re welcome to take a piece if you’d like. Be warned that some of the edges are sharp. The MoCHA offers boxes for anyone interested in handling one of those pieces.
Maisy Gomes, on Accolades:
I have never gotten so much joy out of tearing the s*** out of some papers. I kept forgetting Pavithra wasn’t in the room with me. When they were joyful, it wasn’t loud. We have that in common. Neither of us are loud, but we understood each other’s silences.
Still, I like to imagine them celebrating with us. It took the whole team an hour or two to get through everything. We knew that they wouldn’t have wanted the awards to be their legacy, so we made it our legacy. We are the people who shredded Pavithra Judey’s awards. It’s collaborative now. I hope you would’ve liked that, Pavi.
Valery Bam, on Accolades:
Ems mentioned the sledgehammer, so my work here is done.
#
12-14. Atlantis, #1-3
Three long horizontal canvases, positioned in a column. The top canvas is a skyline of Atlantis, painted in muted shades of green. The middle canvas is a street view, including abstract figures of people in shops, walking down the street, and even one waving at the viewer. The bottom canvas is painted black, with only shimmers of metallic blue and green, as though looking through dark water.
Presenter’s note:
Pavithra told me once that if they weren’t an abstract artist, she would do landscapes. She liked to sketch them sometimes, simple things. One time she showed me the same landscape drawn in one minute, then three, then ten, then twenty. I sat and watched her draw. It took less than an hour for her to distill the view from her apartment into a series of sketches. Those are in my personal collection, framed in my apartment.
These were all painted over the duration of the first offseason, between seasons one and two of playing blaseball. Pavithra spent much of her time in Atlantis — adjusting, she told me — although she visited Hades more than once. Illustrating landscapes was her way of understanding places, of internalizing their rhythm. What you see here was Pavithra attempting to internalize Atlantis.
#
An abstract portrait of Maisy Gomes. She has long black hair; the highlights on this are done in shimmering blue oil paint. The rest of the painting is shades of brown and red. Maisy’s face is mostly obscured by her hair. She has one hand raised, although the fingers are not distinct from the background of the portrait.
Maisy Gomes, on Stranger, Adjusting and Pavithra Judey:
I started my blaseball career on the Dallas Steaks. I grew up in Mexico and moved to Texas for school. Fifty days into the season, I was sent to Atlantis by feedback. It didn’t make sense to me. It was a new place.
Pavi joined the Georgias about a month after I did. She was trying to act like she had her bearings, but I could tell she didn’t. I knew the tells. They were the same as my tells.
It wouldn’t be true to say that Pavi was my first friend in Atlantis, but I think it’s true to say she’s the one that understood me the most. Maybe a best friend. We sort of settled in with one another. I showed her what I figured out about Atlantis, and she helped me find new things.
I actually didn’t realize she was an artist for a while. She mentioned it offhand, and I asked if I could see some of her stuff. She showed me a couple of things she had in her apartment, and then asked if I would be interested in sitting for a portrait.
I didn’t realize what a big deal it was. I didn’t even think to google her or anything until she died. I thought the painting was a hobby. But then again, she acted like the blaseball was a hobby too. It didn’t occur to me that it was a big deal to sit for a portrait with Pavithra Judey. Because to me, it was just Pavi. We were listening to Latin pop. We ate pizza afterwards. It was just hanging out with my friend.
Emilia, I know why you’re doing this. But I think it would’ve been truer to her to cancel the exhibition. Let these sit in dust. Especially the letters. I know we’ve had this fight aloud, but I’m asking you to let me disagree publicly. Let me say that she wouldn’t have wanted this.
Presenter’s note:
Obviously, I disagree with Maisy. Pavithra planned this exhibit, and that means something to me. I was asked to take it over. I take that responsibility seriously.
But I understand what Maisy means. I’ve thought about it a lot. Please believe me when I say this is not an impulse decision. It’s what I think is best.
#
An oil painting that, at first glance, appears to be entirely black. Only when you look closely can you see the shape of two figures standing side by side. The figures are painted in acrylic, and the rest of the canvas is covered in black oil paint.
Lamar,
I know that you’re still around, but it feels like I never see you anymore. Is that a shadow thing or have I just been busy? Either way, I wanted to send you a note letting you know that I’m thinking of you. Quin’s delightful, but I miss spending time next to you in the lineup. Feel free to write back whenever you’re in the mood. I’ll be happy to hear from you.
Cheers,
PJ
Presenter’s note:
In the beginning of the second season of blaseball, the Georgias experienced a night shift. Lamar Hardman, who had been with the team since the beginning, retreated to their shadows. As with the rest of blaseball, Pavithra grappled with this through art, albeit through a much more straightforward and literal depiction than many of their other paintings.
This is the only piece in this exhibit that I saw in progress. Pavithra was secretive about their art. They preferred to show finished products. I’m not sure why they didn’t put this one away before I came over to visit. I remarked that the whole thing looked black, and they laughed and said, “Look closer.” They showed me how to see through the night.
Lamar Hardman, on Pavithra Judey:
I wouldn’t say we were close. I mean, they said it in the letter, we didn’t see each other much afterwards. And I hate to say it, but that was because of them. Lots of the rest of the team made a point of reaching out to me and meeting up. The shadows don’t mean I’m gone, they just mean I’m not in the games anymore.
But at the same time, it was sweet of them to write. We actually sent a lot of letters back and forth. Most of them were about as long as that one, so it wasn’t like we were doing a gigantic pen pal thing. Just notes.
It was good to be in touch with someone. There’s something really deliberate about writing a letter. There are so many steps. Writing and sending. Making sure you’re not out of stamps. Going to the post office. Knowing Pavithra, there were probably steps like “picking paper” and “finding the best pen.”
I don’t know. We weren’t close. I don’t think I saw them more than four times between the night shift and the incineration. But it was nice knowing that someone cared about me enough to write all these letters. To make me a priority in that way. Even if it was a stranger.
#
Nine charcoal drawings on paper. All of them have to do with blaseball:
Presenter’s note:
Like the previous sketchbook, this one was filled cover-to-cover with pieces of blaseball art. These are all from Pavithra’s time on the Georgias. These pieces vary from photorealism to abstraction, depending on the day.
Maisy Gomes, on Still Life:
They were always drawing. I know people say that to mean an exaggeration, but it felt like Pavithra was literally always drawing something. She said she hadn’t done enough of it in Hades, but the way she did it… everything was so careful, like she thought it would be her last one. The Georgias locker room is littered with Pavithra Judey originals. Most of them aren’t finished, though.
It’s good to see these. The world through their eyes. I never looked twice at a baseball until I saw Pavithra doing it. Isn’t it funny how that works? All it takes is one person paying attention, and suddenly everything is beautiful, and noteworthy. I’m still looking for new things, even now, even without them.
#
An oil painting of a window. This is the largest canvas in the exhibit by far, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling. The window takes up most of the canvas. There is sunlight streaming through, and everything the light touches is painted in a neon rainbow, the full spectrum radiating.
At the base of the window, taking up less than a quarter of the canvas, is Emilia, asleep in bed. She’s lying on her stomach, head turned away from the viewer. Her hair is splayed over the pillow. One arm is folded underneath her head, and the other is stretched away from the viewer, towards the empty side of the bed. Her fingers turn transparent and ghostly at their ends. There are blankets pulled up around her waist. Most of her is bathed in sunlight, but the rainbow colors here are lighter and more pastel than the vivid rainbow of the rest of the room.
E,
I took a look at the schedule and it seems like we’re not going to play each other for three more months. Isn’t that the most unfair thing you’ve heard in your life? I’m looking at you asleep in our bed right now. (Your bed? I suppose it’s your bed. Any bed with the both of us is ours, as far as I’m concerned.) I can’t imagine not seeing you again for eighty days. Not being able to hold you again. Calling you just isn’t the same. Your voice over the phone is you, but it isn’t you. Not the way that breathing your air is you.
Since I’m here, I wanted to let you know a few more things. First, I am in love with you. You already know this, but I don’t think you understand how. My love for you reaches up and cups my throat when I am least expecting it, threatening to throttle me in its ferocity, and it’s all I can do to breathe through it. My love for you stains my fingertips, leaking across my papers. It spills out of my mouth like oil. You touch everything I do. Did you know that? I don’t think I’ve ever been able to explain this. It’s hard to say out loud.
Second, I am afraid that it’s not enough. If my love for you is fierce, yours is made of fleece, something big enough to wrap around both of our shoulders. Yours wipes me clean, taking care of me, gently holding my hands and making sure I’m feeling well. You hold your love in your mouth, pocketing it in your cheeks, easy to find if you need, but you are so careful with it. You are so careful in all you do. Have I ever told you how I admire the way you care? I am afraid that my messiness doesn’t do you justice.
Third, you’re out of milk. Sorry. There wasn’t time to tell you, and you aren’t going to wake up before we have to leave. So here I am, leaving a piece of my heart behind for you to find later. Just in case.
I love you. Look, I can’t help but say it. Let me say it again. I love you, Emilia.
Please call me tonight. I don’t know when you’ll see this, but I miss you already.
PJ
[There is no presenter’s note with this work.]
#
An abstract portrait of Pavithra, done in red and orange. There are slashes of blue paint over their mouth and eyes.
Presenter’s note:
I can’t say for certain when this piece was completed. Given that Pavithra depicted themself in Tigers colors rather than Georgias colors, I have to assume that it was not long after Melly Ugh’s incineration.
I promised myself that I would not presume to speak for Pavithra for any of these pieces, but with this one it feels important: I don’t think this was a prediction. I think it was a coping mechanism. I think that Melly Ugh dying made Pavithra realize that they could die as well, and they were trying to visualize it. This was not uncommon for them, trying to visualize. Their art was reactive, responding to the world around them, but this was how they worked through their fears as well.
#
PJ,
Did it ever bother you that I was bad at writing back?
I should’ve asked this before now, I know. I should’ve made sure while you were writing. But for every dozen letters you sent, I would always send one back. I made up excuses, too. I couldn’t remember where my stamps were. I was tired. I even told you one got lost in the mail because I felt so guilty about not writing to you.
You never called me on it, never accused me of anything. Maybe it’s more noteworthy that I felt guilty. That it bothered me. It bothers me more now, as most things do. Retrospect is so cruel.
You asked me once why I was reborn as a shade. I told you I didn’t know, and I don’t think you believed me. I still don’t know, but I have a guess now. It was you. I was supposed to meet you.
Pavithra. My beautiful Pavithra. My talented Pavithra. My kindhearted Pavithra. My verbose, messy, lovely Pavithra. I had hoped that you would be a shade too, but the world isn’t so kind. Now all I can hope for is that there is a reunion. Whether it’s where I am, where you are, or somewhere in the ether between, I’d like to see you again.
Until then, this grief will spill out from my mouth and my fingers, nestle itself between my ribs. You made a mess of me after all. Thank you for that.
With sorrow, with love, with hope,
E
#
A note from the presenter:
On behalf of the Hades Tigers, the Atlantis Georgias, and the MoCHA, I’d like to thank you for coming to Memoriam. I hope you learned something. I hope it reminded you to call someone you haven’t seen in a while. I hope you make something tonight, whether that’s dinner, a cleaner closet, a painting, doing your eyeshadow in a new way. It’s what Pavithra would’ve wanted. More importantly, it’ll be good for you.
—Emilia Spirit, guest presenter
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