Old long since
I was here, you see, I was
Each New Year’s I’m reminded of one of my favorite things - John Green’s episode of The Anthropocene Reviewed on Auld Lang Syne. It is incredibly moving.
The chorus starts out, “For auld lang syne, my Jo, for auld lang syne. I’ll take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne.” “Jo” is a Scots word that can be straightforwardly translated to “dear,” but “Auld Lang Syne” is more complicated. It literally means something like “old long since,” but it’s idiomatically similar to “the old times.” We have a phrase in English somewhat similar to “For auld lang syne;” the phrase is, “For old times’ sake.”
You can listen to it or read the transcript here. In it, Green speaks to the history of Auld Lang Syne alongside his relationship with his deceased friend Amy Krouse Rosenthal. He mentions, “In 2005, Amy published a memoir in the form of an encyclopedia called Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. That book ends, ‘“I was here, you see. I was.’”
Auld Lang Syne was popular perhaps most notably during The Christmas Truce of 1914, where British and German soldiers left the trenches of World War I to exchange gifts and sing. But, as Green then says, “…by Christmas of 1916, soldiers didn’t want truces--the devastating losses of the war, and the growing use of poison gas, had embittered the combatants. But many also had no idea why they were fighting and dying for tiny patches of ground so far from home. And in the British trenches, soldiers began to sing the tune of Auld Lang Syne with different words: We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here.”
In 2024 and 2023 I wrote end-of-year newsletters attempting to summarize the months prior. I remember writing last year’s essay feeling like I was running to the cliff’s edge and then jumping off without pausing to check if there was a safe place to land. I don’t think there every was, but I don’t think it would have made a difference anyway.
I’ve grown to love having a Christmastime birthday. I like looking forward to the new year with friends and fantasizing about what worlds we will conquer and what dreams will come true. A theme for the messages I received this year went something like: “Hannah - I hope you can find peace in everything that has happened.”
Oh, dear reader. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here.
When I laid in bed with my Grandma as she passed away in September, I talked to her in whispers. The room felt like it was 100 degrees. All of our family filtered in and out of that room for days. When I laid with her, she was feverish. I laced our fingers together. I wanted to stare at her but I didn’t want to freak her out - like, “why is this lady sitting in my bed and holding my hand and staring at me?” I didn’t know what to do, so I just hummed a nonsensical tune. It was more like some weird ancient girlish Gregorian chant. I used the back of my hand to swipe her hair from her forehead and press my lips against her temple. She hummed in response.
When I pray, I don’t have a clear picture of who I am praying to. But then, I was praying to her, and to the earth, and to the stars and the sun and moon, for making us together, Grandmother and Granddaughter. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here.
This fall, when my brother started chemo, all I could think about was how our dad taught us how to swim. We never had any true professional lessons or classes. In fact, what I remember is the second the sky started turning a little (just a little) green in the summer, we’d march down the block to Lake Michigan and watch the waves grow taller and taller. Then, we’re in the water and our dad is on the shore yelling, “swim back! Swim back!” Somehow, we did. I don’t remember any inkling of fear. Just pure adrenaline and fun, screeching as the waves smashed our little legs into the lake bottom. We swam in. I can still look over and see Elliott’s big eyes and dimples grinning back at me. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here.
I moved to Green Bay in my early 20s. My first job here was at a daycare as an infant teacher. I shared a wall and dutch-door with this short, loud girl with tanned skin and highlights named Sabrina. On my first day, she leaned one elbow over the door and looked at the state of my classroom. She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.” I smiled at her with tears in my eyes and spit-up on my shirt. Not my spit-up. At least, I don’t think so.
We became attached at the hip pretty instantly. Sold as a pair, do not separate. Over the weekends, we would clean and house-sit for extra cash. We’d immediately go spend it all shopping, or on piercings and tattoos, or at the bar. She loved this particular Mexican bakery over on University so much they knew her by name. When she walked in, they’d all rush to the counter wanting to be the first to help her.
One summer I was dating this horrible guy. She was so sick of it. He was at my place one weekend and she was determined to make me see the light. She slid into my living room window while we were sitting there watching TV and stands with her hands up. She said, “I’ve had enough. This is MY dojo.” The dude and I broke up shortly after.
We had a kid at the daycare who needed some extra attention. She poured her entire life into this kid. She was doing so much for him that we all ended up getting involved to support her. I can’t speak too much to this for privacy’s sake but her heart was never just on her sleeve. Her heart was wide open, always. She would’ve given those kids the entire world if she could’ve afforded it. We were so young.
In Sula, Toni Morrison writes, "We were girls together. Do you know how special that is? We talked all night about falling in love, but that was the love story. We were already in it.”
Sabrina and I found ourselves in and out of trouble, on adventures all over the place. We stood up for each other. We took care of each other. She taught me so much about being Hannah. She taught me so much about being a person who was really alive and really enjoyed it. When husbands and big-time careers entered the picture, our distance was blessed with softness and understanding. Never malice. Never from Sabrina.
Just a few weeks ago I was doing reference calls because she was fulfilling her lifelong dream of starting her own childcare facility. Now we’ll never hear her voice again.
We were girls together. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here.
I often write about the theme of personal resilience and living with grief. I joke about having bad luck: Hurricane Hannah. I got a tattoo this year inspired by lyrics from one of my favorite songs, Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens.
How much sorrow can I take?
Blackbird on my shoulder
And what difference does it make
When this love is over?
I feel tender. I feel a million lightyears away. In 2026, I’ll live by my “old time since”. For everything I’ve lost and everything I’ve learned. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here.
Hannah
P.S. - thank you to everyone who has donated to Sabrina’s gofundme. Your generosity moves me to tears.
I'm so sorry Hannah. You are such a powerful writer.
🙏🏻❤️🥺