This Will All Be Over Soon

by Cecily Strong

  I listen. I listen again.

  Cecily: Ow, it’s so good! I’m legit crying! You sound great! When did you do this one??? And how many of you are making the songs? It’s really great.

  I text again. I’m excited.

  Cecily: I’m sharing with some friends hope you don’t mind!

  Owen: Thank you so much cec! That truly makes me so happy to hear!

  This song becomes a pretty big song in our lives.

  Owen dances with his girlfriend, Stacia, at his thirtieth birthday bash while a band plays his song for him. A video from the party was played at his service. He and Stacia are smiling wide and huge, swaying with their arms around each other, and Owen and the crowd are singing along.

  The lyrics are printed on the first page of the program Leda made for his service.

  Before I am able to talk about Owen, after he’s gone, I share his music as a way to share this person I don’t know how to grieve yet. I remember two responses that meant so much.

  One of my stage managers at work is named Gena, and she and I have been close since the beginning. She’s a little rock-and-roller chick who used to work at MTV during the nineties, and we tease her about this constantly. She lets us. She loves us.

  Gena has a son, G., whom I absolutely adore. I met him first when he was around nine years old. Sometimes Gena worries about him, and I like to talk with her and remind her life is bigger than high school and G. is so magical and kind and courageous and talented. He rocks on his guitar. He gets leads in musicals. He dons a scary mask and stands right up front as his performing arts school dances to “Thriller” on Halloween.

  Gena texts me: Played Owens music for G. Didn’t tell him anything about him. He said, “Angel music.”

  My friend Jenn is a wonderful person with the biggest heart and made us Christmas flower headpieces when she came to SNL. I send her Owen’s music. She is on the set of her show in New Orleans. She texts me: Cecily, I was just listening to the other Owen song. And my co-worker Kevin came into my trailer because he was walking by and liked how it sounded and we sat together and listened.

  There is something I love about people being stopped in their tracks by his music.

  Jenn says “the other Owen song” because Owen finished a song right before going back into the hospital for what nobody knew would be the last time. Uncle Ed told me about it that first night I saw them in the now quiet apartment after Owen flew away.

  Ed told me Owen was adamant about finishing this song. It’s an older one that they left for a while, but he wanted to go back to it. Ed said that at first Owen and his bandmates were only going to play songs using the instruments they could play. But Ed convinced Owen to be open to adding studio musicians. And so Owen added strings. He didn’t play any string instrument, but he arranged them for this song.

  Ed gave me his headphones and I sat down at the table and listened to one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. It’s called “Stay the Night.” Owen sounds beautiful. He sounds ethereal. I am so glad Owen somehow knew he had to finish this song when he did. I’m so glad I get to listen to it and to him.

  And then in April, at the first Airbnb, I stand outside and start to listen to the song. I have to stop it.

  I can’t do it.

  It’s too hard right now.

  And I haven’t tried again since. Not yet.

  August 17, 2020

  On his thirtieth birthday, I am already feeling guilty that I cannot be there because I have a show. I come up with a great idea for a present. At this point, Owen has been home a lot because of treatments, and I think his friends have gotten him every book and board game and boxed set of every show. I want to get something different. I have an idea. I reach out to my agent to help. It seems positive. I wait and wait, but the present doesn’t arrive and his birthday passes.

  I text him: Happiest of birthdays! I’m so sorry I’m missing tonight. Was working on getting Shaggy to record a message for you and fell through last minute so now I’m empty handed like an asshole! I hope tonight is the best ever and I can’t wait to hear about it tomorrow! Lots and lots of love! Welcome to your 30’s!!!

  Owen: Hey cuz! Thank you so much for even trying to pull that off! You’re the best! Wish you could come too, so excited to see you tomorrow!

  We’re planning on hanging out. Then he remembers he’s going to his girlfriend’s family house the next day for “the Thrones premiere.”

  Me: I miss you! Let’s do din soon!

  Three days later I get a video:

  “Hey, Owen, what’s up, this is Shaggy.”

  He goes on and wishes Owen a happy birthday. It’s amazing. Shaggy came through!

  I text Owen: Welp. The surprise is ruined but I hope it’s still cool :) Shout out to karaoke 2012 when I was auditioning.

  Owen: WHAAAAT??!!! Holy shit this is so friggin amazing! Thank you so much cuz! I can’t believe you pulled this off. You are the absolute best! Oh man. Thank you thank you! I love you.

  Me: I thought “what do you get the guy who has literally read and watched everything over the past year :)”

  Then: And I wanted you to know how much your friendship (which I can say because family doesn’t always imply friendship) has meant to me all these years. The support and love has never gone unnoticed and I’m a better person because of your family but especially you and Leda. And this past year, I watched a real life superhero. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

  August 18, 2020

  They talk about “the big one” when they talk about California earthquakes. There’s a fault line under the state, and if it rips, California will be torn apart and cast into the ocean. But I’ve always been more afraid of the fires. They’ve become so big and so deadly and so frequent. They can swallow up a thousand people in two days. At points, it seems they are partly contained, but all it takes is a shift in the weather, and the fire rages even stronger and new blazes are set and the firefighters have to find new strategies, more water in a state that was almost out of water not long ago.

  August 21, 2020

  It’s late August now and I’m feeling myself start to slowly get sad.

  I’ve always been sad this time of year. I remember not quite having the vocabulary as a kid to describe how I could smell the end of summer in the air and it would make me want to cry. It’s like I’ve been on the run, wild, and that’s what summer is. Possibilities. And now I’m slowing down, heading into fall, work, responsibility, cold weather, and darker days, and I have to look side to side to start taking inventory of what I’ve gained and what I’ve lost somehow along the way.

  I am holding on to the summer as much as I can. To the feeling I’ve gotten to have, lying in the sunshine with Lucy. Laughing at Jack’s pool at his family’s beautiful home in the Berkshires; Jack has moved up there pretty much permanently now, so I get to see him often. Laughing hard with Kevin and Tommy and Shawn. Winning bingo! Making cucumber soup once a week, using herbs I grew myself. Getting to hold Jack’s hand as much as I have. Wearing summer dresses and drinking really good wine. And I’ve felt safe.

  Yesterday was the last night of the Democratic National Convention. I’ve always been a bit of a political wonk and it’s mainly because of my dad. He worked for a PR firm in Chicago most of my life growing up, and they wound up working a lot with the Democratic Party in Chicago. Every election, I’ve turned to my dad, thinking he’ll have answers and sometimes hoping he’ll fix what’s happening.

  So, naturally, we are all texting about the DNC on the Owen’s Angels thread.

  It’s a bizarre convention. It’s all virtual. There isn’t a crowd to address, just sometimes a wall of screens. Everyone is in masks. Our new normal. I don’t notice really anymore. That was fast.

  I’m feeling as optimistic as possible about Joe Biden. Because whether or not I feel like he has all the plans and answers to “fix” everything, which I actually don’t believe is a realistic expectation anyway and is in fact disingenuous, I
believe that Joe Biden cares about people. Actively. And it’s his purpose. And it’s his purpose because of grief and loss.

  It’s strange and maybe sad to think about having an election where we are looking for someone else who has been hurt because we need to acknowledge our own losses. It’s not about a personality or money or taxes or not liking Donald Trump. Americans have just gone through an insane amount of loss over a short period of time. We are at 170,000 and counting deaths from COVID. And it’s not frustrating anymore. It’s not frustrating that these people won’t wear masks. It’s not frustrating that people held parties trying to get COVID. It’s beyond frustrating. It’s exhausting and it’s devastating and everyone is mourning. And we can’t truly express our sympathies to each other because we are still grieving ourselves.

  One of my favorite drag queens, Chi Chi DeVayne, passed away yesterday. At thirty-four. Of kidney failure. And I think losing this young, amazingly special and kind person is so sad on its own. I don’t know where to put that loss. What pile does that go in as I am internally trying to organize this giant messy sadness inside me? I wonder how to grieve. I wonder if the bits of sad I feel every day can cover all of it. I don’t want to start feeling too tired to be sad, to cry. Because I don’t want to ever ever let myself start thinking of those numbers not as people. With loved ones. Whole families wiped out.

  So I like Joe Biden because he carries his grief with him. Sometimes at your lowest, you can only feel better by giving yourself a purpose. Throwing yourself into work you’d never imagined being part of your life, but here you are. And it’s interesting to see that I think that’s what is bonding people over Joe Biden. He lives with grief honestly, which I think makes us feel like he will acknowledge and care about ours. Just like that chef José Andrés said this summer: compassion is the only way to beat the pandemic. Here is our chance. I really hope we take it.

  There was a moment last night at the strange but powerful virtual DNC that I keep thinking about. It’s a video of his children and grandchildren talking about Joe. And it’s the normal kind of political video where we see so-and-so is a family man so he will care about yours, etc. But then, at the end, there’s a sound clip and a quote. It’s Beau Biden saying, “I can’t be there to support my dad this fall, so I’m asking you to be there.”

  Beau Biden passed away from GBM. Young. Accomplished. Brave. Smart. And someone says something about Beau not being here but still guiding his father every day. And my dad texts me, Reminds me of Ed and Owen.

  And he’s right. It does. It’s simple. But it makes me feel hopeful for Uncle Ed. That there is a way to hold that gigantic grief and not have to deal with it by trying to forget someone ever existed because it’s too hard to know they aren’t here anymore.

  But here’s Beau Biden, his voice captured sometime, someplace, before here and now, and he’s with all of us at the same virtual DNC. His story isn’t over either.

  GBM is cruel. Cancer is so fucking cruel. It’s unreal.

  So I’m happy about Joe Biden. And I’m glad people seem to be moving away from the kind of grief that makes you want others to hurt, too. Moving to the grief where your only solace is helping others.

  There’s just too much cruelty. So much cruelty that it feels like it even stopped the Earth from turning.

  And so I think I’m afraid of what happens when the weather changes and the sun doesn’t shine anymore. I’m afraid to take that inventory.

  I really hope Joe Biden wins in November.

  I really miss you, Owen, and I wish you were here in this time and space.

  Though, is he? What about the lightbulb?

  I’ve always sort of felt like I had a weird “thing” with electricity, especially when I moved into my apartment in New York in 2012. I remember a day my first year or so in New York. I was feeling particularly low and lonely, and when I got home, I discovered all my lightbulbs had burned out. In the kitchen, entry, and living room. I had to replace every lightbulb. And my friends used to joke about my “ghost in the printer” because I had a printer that seemed to have a mind of its own; even though it had been powered off for hours, it would just start printing (just a blank sheet of paper) or turning itself on. This was especially jarring in the middle of the night when you know you shouldn’t be hearing the sounds of an office in your dark, empty apartment. I went to a medium once and when I asked her if my apartment was haunted, she said it was me. Apparently I had boundary issues: with people in this life and people on the other side.

  The week I got back to New York after Owen passed, I had a couple of weird electricity moments. And they were both in my bathroom. The day before I was going over to the apartment to see Leda, Ed, and Laurel, I was sitting on the toilet, shock and grief making me move so slowly even just to pee. I was sitting on the toilet in a daze and something caught my eye. I have an electronic scale on the floor, and it turns itself off unless you turn it on. That night, for about five seconds or so, the scale started flashing random numbers like a calculator breaking or something. It stopped after I’d had long enough to realize what had happened. I didn’t think too much of it but still mentioned it to Leda. Just in case.

  The next day, right before dinner, I was in my bathroom again getting ready to leave and one of the three lightbulbs over my sink started to flicker. And I wasn’t sure if it was my eyes or the light flickering. So I looked at it for a bit, trying to adjust my eyes. And then it made a popping sound and the light flashed and went out completely. Not totally an explosion, in that it didn’t shatter, but it certainly was a bit of a show. It made me smile a little, because I had been unsure about the flashing numbers on the scale and the flickering light, so this was like being hit over the head, like, Here! Is this obvious enough for you?!?! And in that moment I think I laughed a little and then thought, Okay, I get it, and bathrooms are funny and it’s hard to find things funny right now but can the bathroom not be our place?

  So I will keep my eyes open in case I see him elsewhere, in the birdsong or the daffodils or exploding bathroom lightbulbs.

  August 29, 2020

  We are watching TV, the three of us: Kevin, Jack, and I. It’s an episode of Singletown, which is a British dating show. We are laughing about the fashion choices and all the other stupid mindless details that make reality TV shows easy and silly and never too heavy. We are laughing and Jack grabs my wrist to look at his phone. I see what it says and quickly turn away.

  “No,” I say. “Not now. Not now.”

  We try to keep watching but I’m too sad now.

  “What happened?” Kevin asks.

  I can see Jack overly mouthing: “Chadwick. Boseman. Died. Cancer.”

  Okay, fine, now we have to look. It’s out there and too sad to even want to read or acknowledge it’s true. But I have to. It says he’d been battling colon cancer for four years. Four years. Everyone starts doing math, counting backward, realizing all the things he did WHILE BEING TREATED FOR COLON CANCER. He filmed the greatest action movie of all time, and it was even more of a SUPERhero of a movie because it was the first to feature mainly all Black actors. It made an unbelievable amount of money and actually changed the world, in a Hollywood sense but also in that more important sense of children seeing a supercool hero movie where the heroes look like them. All of them!

  I know an amazing woman in Chicago who is part of creating Wakandacon, which is tough for me to explain because I’VE NEVER BEEN TO A CONVENTION. So I only know the basic idea: there are speakers and workshops on all sorts of topics and everybody can dress up as superheroes. My friend Marketta gets to showcase her artwork and dance and music classes. Rashida of course does some kind of press or hosting and general hype-man shit. I know she does plenty of logistical things as well to help, but this is where she shines. Rashida takes videos of people to share on social media for the event. Rashida saves a video of a specific boy. She’s flirting with him and giggling behind the camera. He says, “Hey, Auntie.” She shrieks.

  “R
ashida!” I say. “He looks sixteen!”

  “No, he works at a school with my friend.”

  Later I’m eating dinner with her and Marketta and I can’t let Marketta miss out on teasing Rashida about this young hunk. Marketta sees the picture and screams out, “He’s sixteen!” We do some very light detective work and see he does work at a school, so we eventually give in a little and say we will believe he’s a TA or something and he’s nineteen. Rashida tells us they went on a terrible date together.

  “What?!?” we scream.

  He took her to an Illinois-based wine restaurant chain. In the suburbs.

  “WHAT?!?”

  She’s a Chicago girl through and through. South Side Chicago. And he took her to the suburbs? Okay. He ordered the wine for them, very proud of his own chivalry; when it got to the table, she saw it was called “Romance Red.” I make barfing sounds.

  “And I think he made a toast to new beginnings or something,” Rashida said. “But I was already out.”

  We laughed about it all night.

  Rashida had to go in for a pretty big surgery in the last couple of years. She’s okay, thank God, and the surgery seems to have really improved her health and life, but big surgeries are traumatic on your body. She has not had an easy go bouncing back, but she’s working really fucking hard. She always works really fucking hard.

  At that surgery, so many people texted me to ask whether I had spoken to her and whether she was okay. She was out of surgery but needed to stay a couple of days. I talk to her on the day she’s supposed to be sent home, held together by staples basically and on a crazy amount of pain pills. I’m walking to work as Rashida tells me she’s going to just order a Lyft. “A Lyft? What??? No! You cannot get in a Lyft right now while you are high as hell and with a giant stomach wound! Call a friend!”

  I’m screaming on Broadway and Fifty-Seventh. But so is everybody. She’s so used to helping others. She doesn’t realize this means there are lines of people who would love to return the favor to her someday. She promises to text her cousin. At the end of our call, she says her cousin said she can get her. DUH.