When is it a good time to let contact information go once a loved one has died?

As the New Year gently rolled in and the Christmas decorations were stored away, I did what I do every year—I began to purge all the unnecessary things in my life. First went all the clothes I knew I’d no longer wear. Next came every drawer in the house that needed decluttering, and then it was off to the kitchen to throw away food that was long past its expiration date. Hours later, taking a breath from the long day of clearing, I sat down with a glass of wine and scrolled through my phone to see the list of favorites to see who I should give a call to. That’s when I saw her name mixed amongst the others, and I cried.

In 2023, after a very long battle with cancer, my sister-in-law Sarah passed away. She fought the disease viciously for four years, but her poor little body just couldn’t handle the treatments, nor the disease, anymore.

Forty-six years ago, we became sisters by marriage. But as time floated around the moon and sun, we grew to become more than that. In the early years, we shared parenting ideas as we watched our babies grow. As artists, we enjoyed each other’s work while learning new techniques from one another. When her mother passed away from a horrible car accident, we shared a grief that was palpable to our souls. As she was fading away, Sarah and I sat under a tree on the hospital grounds, held hands, and cried. But it was when I went through my divorce from her brother that we became truly close.

Divorce is a hard experience. While difficult on the couple going through it—between dividing assets and agreeing on financial responsibilities for the future—it’s also difficult for those close to the couple. They don’t know how to help, or what side to take. So, in many cases, they do nothing and fade into the background.

I once had a very large family with the Haughs. Siblings became my children’s godparents, a host of cousins, aunts and uncles, and spouses to all that I’d grown to love. But when it was over, other than Sarah, I didn’t hear from anyone for years. Even my father-in-law, who I wrote letters to every year, completely vanished. It was as if an alien whisked him away to another planet, never to be seen again. To have Sarah still in my life was a gift I treasured; I valued our sisterhood and friendship.

So, when her name popped up on my phone in my contacts, I just stared and wondered, What do I do? Do I erase her? Such an act, as trivial as it may seem, felt monumentous, as if it would make her truly gone forever. I put the phone down as memories of our times together swirled in my head.

How I loved her laugh. Even through her illness, she could find things to giggle over. When people hurt her, she found a way to be kind when discussing them. Her spirit was tenacious, and optimism laced every breath she took. Oh, the hours we’d spend laughing, crying, and telling stories over a healthy pour of Rombauer wine.

Picking the phone back up, I knew if called her number, some stranger would pick up. If I couldn’t hear her voice, I did the next best thing. I perused my photo gallery, and more memories fluttered back.

In 1981, we gave birth to our first children ten days apart; how we’d howled over our growing bellies and over whose belly was larger. There were images of us all dolled up in our party finest as we went to a wedding or celebrated her father’s seventieth birthday.

Then there were the ones where she sat with my children and made her connection to each one’s heart. While we lived miles apart and didn’t see each other often, the bond was set and each event together, whether big or small, became a treasured memory.

Going back to my contact list, I continued to debate with myself over deleting her number. It’s so hard for me to get rid of anything that had a connection to someone I love. Hovering my finger over her name, I finally made my decision. The weight of sadness in my chest began to lift. She wouldn’t vanish. Instead, it was as if Sarah was saying, “It’s time to make room for someone new.” As I pressed the button to let her go, a popup appeared: “Are you sure you want to delete this contact?” 

Sarah is no longer in my list, but she is everywhere else. She’s in the letters we shared that she sent back to me just before her death. She’s in the photos of our lives together, she’s in my life story, but most importantly, she is in my heart. Some connections don’t need a phone to stay alive, for if the love is real, it never dies.

Who in your world is so special all you need are them memories to keep them alive? I’d love to hear.