A Memento For Where You Are Now
Tell your people you love them.
On the TV screen, I watched as one person after another grappled with what to say.
Isobel recently borrowed my copy of Kitchen Confidential. She’d never read it, but it’s one of a few books I keep front-and-center on the shelf behind my desk. Like the others in the small stack, it’s there as a reminder more than anything.
Since Isobel was new to Anthony Bourdain and his work, I suggested that once she finish reading Kitchen Confidential, we watch the CNN documentary that came out in the aftermath of his death.
So we did.
After talking about their last exchange before Anthony Bourdain’s suicide, the voice of long-time producer and director, Michael Steed, began to trail off...
“I wish I’d said more.”
I watched intently as his expression shifted. His eyes looked like he was reliving the memory, then and there. We watched as a steady string of friends, family members, coworkers, artists, musicians, chefs, fans, and everyday people talked to the camera about how much they loved Anthony Bourdain. As Michael Steed recounted his last conversation with Tony, he looked... defeated. I could understand why—Michael’s solemn expression looked a lot like regret for the things he’d never said.
The way he described Tony’s side of that interaction sounded like he’d been angry, irritated, and defensive. He’d told Michael to leave him alone, so he did. Shoulders slouched and lips pulled back in a straight line, Michael exhaled through his nose and looked into the camera.
He wishes he told him he loved him.
Michael didn’t say that, but that’s what I saw on his face.
Like most decorations around the house, Kitchen Confidential and the rest of that small stack of books have been there by my desk for so long that, most of the time, they blend in with the background. I like knowing they’re there. In a strange way, those kinds of things offer assurance—the stories and lessons within, little keepsakes and mementos from tales mirroring my own life. Like street signs wending their way from where I grew up to where I am now. Among the collection are all the Wrong Ways, Dead Ends, and One Lane Road Aheads, too. Even the Turn Backs and Tresspassings.
Seeing that handful of books every day makes me feel more like myself, lest I forget.
Some signposts in those books are nostalgic. It’s the Do Not Enter signs I’m most grateful for, though. I get to plant those ones on the road ahead. It’s one of the reasons I tell my friends I love them every time I see them. It’s why I leaned over and told Isobel I love her, too.
A memento, for where we are now.
onward.
If you enjoyed reading this, I write short reflections like it every day as part of an email series called BUDS (Becoming Unobstructed Daily Snippets). Think of them like field notes for navigating agency, grief, and creativity in daily life.
Sign up to get them here.