Andrea Was Waiting To Give You This Gift

“When Death Came to Visit”

Today we’re releasing a poem Andrea wrote two years ago, titled When Death Came to Visit. Though they recorded it multiple times, Andrea was reluctant to share it while alive. They feared it might frighten you. That it might make you worry, or feel sad.

Never in my life have I met an artist who cared so profoundly for their audience. They refused to call anyone “fans.” “Followers” didn’t feel right either. They didn’t have a word for the lovers of their work. I once joked that “Fandreas” would be a good one, and we would all eagerly self-identify. But Andrea always called you “sweet community.” Or “love-bugs.”

For all the attention they amassed in their final years, there wasn’t a shred of ego. There was only gratitude. Maybe gratitude is ego’s opposite.

The hierarchy of fame was uninteresting to Andrea. Which is perhaps why their meet-and-greet portions of their tours were always free, and often lasted longer than the performances themselves. Or why they referred to their massive career simply as “being on YouTube.”

They cherished you lovebugs with their whole being. They believed the magic of every show was made equally by performer and audience. That all of us were part of one body. Andrea just happened to be the mouthpiece (and the really great hair).

A few days after the surgery that revealed the cancer, you all were top of mind. They wanted to include you in the fold of their life, but a written statement didn’t feel enough like a hug. So they recorded an 18-minute video. Watching it now, I can feel how every joke, every gentle offering, every piece of permission was an attempt to care for you all better. A net to catch their sweet community, even though it was Andrea who was falling.

The day we learned their cancer was considered incurable, they were worried how they would tell YOU. They recorded a podcast episode so you’d hear it in conversation, not a sterile post.

This care extended to their shows, too. Every night on stage, Andrea would begin by saying that some poems might be hard to hear—and give their audience permission to walk out. And for those incapable of an easeful ambulatory exit, they’d add, “you can simply plug your ears.”

Some artists would be peeved if their performance was interrupted, but not Andrea. Your well-being always came first. Every time their boots stepped into the lights, it felt like a vow: a poet’s Hippocratic Oath. They touched the mic as if swearing to do no harm.

Though they never explicitly asked me to release this posthumously, I wonder if they knew I would. I wonder if they knew that NOW is when we collectively need this poem most. I wonder if this was just another way of swaddling us in their words. I’m amazed at how they are still so capable of that, even now.

There’s been a lot this week that’s made me feel like Andrea is orchestrating something from beyond. I’ll write more about that soon. But holding this poem until now feels like Andrea designed, yet again, the perfect setlist.

It’s my honor to share it with you now:

—

WHEN DEATH CAME TO VISIT

When death first came to visit, I refused
to let her enter my home. She sat outside
in the garden picking buttercups, painting
her face the color of the sun.

I stood at the window for hours
watching her, thinking, Why is she still here?
It’s not like she has nowhere to go. I’d try to sleep,

but as soon as I closed my eyes

I would hear her outside talking
daisies into blooming at night.
I suspect she knew, I too am the type
to open my petals for the moon.

On my eighth night awake, I did it.
I don’t know how, but I did it––I walked out
to the garden and invited her in. I poured her
a cup of lavender tea. I made up her bed

and turned down the lights. I wished her good
dreams, though I knew her good dream
was to one day take my life.
I used to believe I knew my purpose,

thought for sure I understood my calling.
But my calling, I now know, has always been
this: to parent my own departure.
To never punish the child for being who she is.

To keep a roof over the head of the truth.
To raise what will end me, with love.

Now people often ask how it feels
raising a delinquent, a child capable

of such awful behavior.
But what rule has she ever broken
besides the ones we make up in our minds?
Ask me instead how it feels to raise a genius,

a child with a boundless IQ.
She could get away with anything, yes.
She could get away with me any minute.
But I trust her. I have to.

I see some of the letters on a chart on a wall.
She has infinity/infinity vision.
Besides, who would I be if I were someone
who would say, I’m gonna ground you

for wanting to heaven me?
I won’t do that, ever. It doesn’t matter
if I made her with my body or not. She’s mine.
I owe her a stable home. I owe her an allowance

without the stipulation
that she use it to buy me more time.
At night when I tuck her in, I read her a story
with the same three words on every page:

You are innocent. You are innocent. You are innocent,
I say. Before I close the book she asks,
But have you ever known anyone who is so unwanted?
It’s the saddest question in the universe,

and she asks it everytime.
“People don’t know you,” I say. “They’ll want you
when they meet you, won’t they?” She says yes,
looking me dead in the eye.

And you, she adds. You’re really okay
with who I want to be when I grow up?
I know I have to answer honestly.
I say, “I don’t want you to grow up too fast.

You know that. You know I can’t help
but be one of those parents who wishes their child
could stay a child forever. It’s only because I’ve cherished
these years so much. But when you’re ready,

I’ll be ready, I promise. I’ve committed
the rest of my days to learning how

to give you my blessing when it’s time
for you to follow your dreams.

I know it’s how you say, I love you.
I know others will hear it as a curse
and try to rinse your mouth out with soap.
But I will hear your I love you.

I will hear it so clearly my last words will be
I love you too, as I watch you
make something of yourself,

as I open my petals for the moon.”

—

Andrea has said many times, “I write so much about my diagnosis not to remind you that I am mortal, but to remind you that YOU are mortal.” Touching into the impermanence of this life made them cherish it all the more.

My hope is that this poem doesn’t make you sad or worried, but invites you—like Andrea invites us—to “raise what will end you, with love.”

Love,

Meg [ + Andrea, forever ] 🖤

PS. This video was made possible by the director, producers, editor, cinematographer, and sound-artist responsible for our documentary, “Come See Me in the Good Light”, which will be released on Apple TV+ on November 14th. Creating this film with this group of people (Ryan White, Jessica Hargrave, Stef Willen, Tig Notaro, Berenice Chavez, Brandon Somerhalder, and Dave Richards) has been the highlight and joy of both of our creative lives. We cannot wait to share it with you.

Thank you for being here.