1. The Pleiades

 

“My Grammy and I aren’t blood related,” I find myself often explaining. “But she’s always been my Grammy; she held me the day I was born, and her and my Papa married before I was even a thought.”

 

My biological grandmother died tragically when my mom was 20. Her name was Sally, the same name as Grammy, which makes their story even more confusing to explain. The connection between the two Sally’s runs much deeper than a lifelong shared first name, and briefly shared surname, though. They’re both Pleiades, a fact I’ve known for as long as I’ve heard stories about my biological grandmother. 

 

Some 100 million years ago, a group of stars emerged from a cloud of gas and dust. This glowing mark in the night sky remains one of the most noticeable star patterns, and has sparked the interest of humans since at least 1600 BCE, when the Nebra Sky Disk, the first known depiction of astronomical knowledge was created. This metal disk featured the Pleiades beside the moon, amongst other stars. From 400 light-years away, ancient humans noticed this star cluster; it served as inspiration for endless folklore from vastly different communities, as a marker of seasons and time, and it regulated facets of human life before culture was documented in writing.

 

In the West, we call these stars the Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, tracing back to its origins in Greek mythology. These sisters were the seven daughters of the titan Atlas and Pleione. The origin of the word ‘Pleiades’ remains a mystery, as their mother, Pleione, was said to have gotten her name from the constellation. In the tale, Orion, the giant hunter, spotted the sisters on a stroll near Athens. From the moment Orion first glanced at the Pleiades, he was infatuated with their beauty. His striking confidence, in line with his reputation as ‘the most handsome man alive,’ led him to pursue all seven sisters for close to seven years, until they finally turned to Zeus for protection. Zeus turned the seven sisters into doves, and placed them in the Taurus constellation, where they’ve graced the night sky with their glow ever since. This is the story that led the Seven Sisters of Cleveland to begin calling themselves the Pleiades in the first place.

 

There are many more stories about the Pleiades, in addition to the ancient Greek tale. It’s pretty remarkable, when you think about it, that the same stars have painted the night sky for as long as humans have been around to witness them. All this time, they have been a road map in our 200,000-year-long search for meaning. Cultures throughout history have looked up at the sky and created concepts of time, seasons, religious beliefs and stories based on their astrological interpretations, oblivious of the other cultures scattered across the world doing the exact same thing. Every star pattern has as many explanations and significant meanings as there are ancient civilizations.

 

This cluster of seven bright stars holds many other names besides the Pleiades: Matariki to the Māori people, an indigenous Polynesian group of New Zealand, Karatgurk to the Wurundieri people, an indigenous group of Australia, and Krittika in Sanskrit, an alignment of stars in Vedic astrology, to name a few. The Matariki marks the new year in most Polynesian cultures. The Krittika is the starting point of the nakshatras, a list of 27 lunar mansions in Hindu astrology, making up a 360° map of the sky. The mythical representation of the stars as the seven sisters appears in Dreamings, Australian Aboriginal beliefs, just as they appear in Greek mythology. There is no evidence of any cultural connection between these indigenous groups and the Ancient Greeks. Thus, the close resemblance between these stories is believed to be coincidental. Knowing what I know now, I believe the story of seven sisters was fated to be told. 

 

When my biological grandmother died, my Papa could not bear to part with her car, a 1982 Nissan Maxima. So long as it was his primary mode of transportation, her presence remained a part of his daily errands. The dented left fender reminded him that just months ago, this car was a part of her final moments. Sally was visiting my mom, then a 20-year-old art student, at the College for Creative Studies in Detroit. They were driving to a restaurant in Farmington Hills and took a “Michigan left,” a legal U-turn to change directions, on Telegraph Road. After driving for a few minutes, a car down the road attempted this same turn, but drove straight into traffic. They hit a car, who hit another car, who hit another car, who hit the Nissan Maxima. The impact only dented their car, my mom and her mom remained safe and unscathed inside. Remaining true to her nature, Sally couldn’t sit and wait in the car for emergency personnel to arrive. Up on the medium that divided Telegraph Road, two cars in the collision were completely smashed. She leaped out of her car and hurried to the medium to make sure those drivers were okay. They were. On her way back to check on my mom, an 18-year-old driver zoomed through the accident zone, oblivious to the woman crossing the street, unaware of my mom watching through the car window. In an instant, Sally was hit, and my mom knew that no human could survive that level of impact, she wasn’t going to make it. 

 

“A new car would help you move on,” his eldest son, my Uncle Mike told him. “Get yourself a car Mom would never let you buy.” 

But, Papa was hesitant. Sally’s smell still lingered in the confines of her old white station wagon, and he preferred to drive with eyes full of tears than let go of the car.

 

Soon enough, though, he caved, and the tires of Papa’s sleek, brand-new, two-door Subaru sports car screeched to a stop on the driveway. He felt cool, he felt excited; it was a much welcomed glimmer of light in an otherwise utterly dark period in his life. This new car, a symbol of the need to locate a new beginning, served him well as he cruised the streets of Cleveland. He saved Sally’s license plate and put it on the new car, to be reminded of her still.  A few weeks later, a magazine arrived in the mail, a small gift for the new Subaru owner. Papa, characteristically, sat on the couch, flipped to the first page, and began to read. Halfway through the magazine, his eyes scanned an article about the origins of the name Subaru and the company’s logo. In Japanese, Subaru means, “coming together,” “cluster,” or “unite.” In Japan, he read, Subaru is also the name of a specific cluster of stars, the Pleiades. The logo only features six stars, despite there being seven sisters, as one of the stars is difficult to see with the naked eye, dimmer than the rest, often known as the ‘Lost Pleiad.” When Papa picked out his Subaru, he had not the slightest clue that the brand name and logo held such a significance to his present moment. Parting with the station wagon symbolized his moving forward, as the new Subaru symbolized Sally’s enduring presence, the fateful connection to her six Pleiades sisters. 

​

​

Research sources used in this section

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

2. Beginnings

​

Sally 1 (my biological grandmother), Sally 2 (Grammy), Joanne, Fran, Eileen, Phyllis, and Lois came into the world in 1933. They were almost all born in Cleveland; Eileen was the New York-born exception, but she moved to Cleveland when she was four. Most of them had at least one parent who was born in Europe, and fled to America to escape anti-semitic pogroms. Their parents and grandparents were part of the generation that set the foundation for the thriving Jewish community that exists in Cleveland today, the community that shaped me, supported me, and instilled the values of family, friendship, and social justice in me, greatly influencing who I am today. 

 

On 105th Street in downtown Cleveland, Grammy and Joanne were neighbors in what Joanne classified as the “original Jewish neighborhood.” They met at age four, when their lives’ biggest inconvenience was the fact that they lived directly across the street from one another, but their parents made them walk down the block to the cross walk in order to spend time together. Eileen lived in the same apartment building as Grammy, and met her and Joanne when she was six. While Grammy and Joanne went to school in the city until high school, Eileen moved to Cleveland Heights in second grade, so she wasn’t a part of their inner-city upbringing. The buildings they were raised in and the schools they attended no longer exist today as they did back then. The Jewish population migrated out to suburbs like Cleveland Heights and Shaker Heights, and Doan Elementary School, where they attended kindergarten to sixth grade, is now a condominium. 

 

Eileen, Lois, Fran and Sally 1 were raised in Cleveland Heights and met at Taylor Elementary School. Some were closer friends than others, but they all knew each other. Lois’ academic record allowed her to skip 2nd grade, so when she first arrived in her 3rd grade classroom, she knew no one. She was very frightened, and the teacher sat her at a front row desk. Lois noticed Eileen, a girl just as short as she was, was moved to the seat behind her. Eileen was initially angry that the new girl stole her seat, but Lois never knew, as Eileen was always extremely kind. Lois believes in chemistry between people, how it can be immediate, or developed over time. And with Eileen, on that first day of school, it was immediate. 

 

The next year, Sally 1 moved into their 4th grade class and met her first Pleiades friends. Of course, I can’t call her and ask about her early friendships, but I did gain some insights from a short autobiography she wrote in a high school English class. My mom saved it all these years, so I was able to read, in Sally’s own words, about a “bad habit” that “might’ve been” her “downfall” in elementary school: she was a tomboy, and the games girls played were “too tame” for her. She recalled, from her high school freshman self’s perspective, that she hung out with some popular girls in elementary school, but never felt like she fit right in. If I had to guess, those popular girls were her 4th grade classmates, Eileen and Lois. My biological grandmother’s life was much different than the other girls her age, she noted. When she was just 11-years-old, her father was in a bad accident. He survived, but was unable to walk and thus, unable to work. Sally stepped up and helped her mother run the family business, and devoted herself to her father's well-being. She massaged his legs, kept him focused on his therapeutic exercises, and for this reason alone, he eventually regained his ability to walk.

 

Eileen had another best friend outside of their elementary school class, Fran, her neighbor and Sunday School companion. Eileen would walk over to Fran’s every morning. Fran’s mother liked to sleep in, so her father made them rye bread toast and drove them to school daily. 

 

Phyllis also grew up in Cleveland Heights, but went to a different elementary school and didn’t meet the others until junior high. She was closer friends with some other girls, but noticed Pleiades as the popular girls she longed to be friends with. One day, she decided these girls didn’t realize how wonderful she was, and went to join their conversation on the hill at Cain Park. She began cultivating these new friendships, and by the time they reached high school, Phyllis’ personality had shined through.

 

This was also the year Grammy and Joanne started at Cleveland Heights High, and they were immediately swept into this circle of friends. Joanne moved to Heights for middle school, but went to a different school than the Pleiades, and Grammy didn’t move to Heights until high school. Eileen remembered them from her childhood in Cleveland, and Lois knew them from Sunday School and temple; both were excited to welcome them to Heights High. After the twists and turns of fate, chance, and overlapping connections that bring all groups of people together, Sally 1, Sally 2, Joanne, Fran, Eileen, Phyllis, and Lois were finally all at the same place at the same time. They weren’t a defined group of seven quite yet, but all ran in the same circle. People took notice of this brilliant, studious, fun, and independent group of young women and looked up to them. The seven eventual Pleiades would have their own unique bond, even if they didn’t realize it yet. In high school, they had similar values, had been raised in similar Jewish households, and fell into the same patterns of who they knew and what they did. 

 

After high school, Grammy, Joanne, Lois, and Fran stuck together and moved to Ann Arbor to start college at the University of Michigan. Phyllis almost went to Michigan, but ultimately chose Cornell. Eileen attended Smith College in Massachusetts, and Sally went to Ohio State. Shortly after college, they all made their way back to Cleveland. Grammy and Fran moved home first, after only two years in Ann Arbor. Fran moved home to marry her high school sweetheart and finish her degree at Western Reserve University. Grammy also left Michigan that summer, with plans to marry her then-boyfriend, a rabbi. She would transfer to the University of Cincinnati in the fall to be closer to him while he attended Hebrew Union College there. But, while working in Cleveland that summer, she realized that this wasn’t the life she wanted for herself. She didn’t want to marry a rabbi, or be a rabbi’s wife for the rest of her life! So she called him up and broke off their relationship. Joanne and Lois planned to spend their junior years abroad in Europe, so Grammy decided to finish her degree with Fran at Western Reserve, where she met her first husband, Irv. 

 

Immediately upon their return from college, all of the Pleiades, besides Joanne, married and began having children. After a decade-long stint living on her own in New York City, Joanne, too, married a Clevelander and returned home. 

 

In their 30s, the women lived fairly typical suburban lives. But, they never let their commitment to their husbands and children consume their lives. They each followed their own personal passions, pursued graduate degrees, entered the workforce with jobs that invigorated them, intellectually stimulated them, and largely aligned with their collective commitment to social justice. They all identified with, and still advocate for, progressive political causes, and spent much of their free time volunteering and serving on nonprofit boards. They kept in close contact; it was unspoken that when tragedy struck one Pleiad, the other six would show up with unwavering support.

 

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

3. The Dove

​

If you ask any of the Pleiades exactly when their specific group came to be, or who thought of their name, you’ll get seven different stories, seven different answers. The general consensus, though, is that it started at a 40th birthday party. Phyllis owned a camper van; her and Eileen decided to throw a party and invited fifteen friends from high school that were also turning 40 that year. They piled in the van, drove to a restaurant for lunch, and had a wonderful time. So wonderful, in fact, that a smaller group, which turned out to be the 7, decided to plan another time to meet. Their chemistry as a group proved to be close to perfect. They were all so different, each playing their own unique role in the group dynamic. They continued to meet, always invigorated by their passionate conversations, comforted by the presence of women who knew everything about them, who had always been there. Chatting about recent life updates was simple, no back stories were ever needed. At one of these get-togethers, the women decided that they should start consistently meeting every month, and should come up with a name! It might’ve been Eileen who thought of the name, or Phyllis, or Joanne, but the consensus was that Joanne’s husband Bob, the Renaissance Man, Greek scholar, and astronomy expert, first suggested the name Pleiades. All six Pleiades alive today remembered these stories with slightly different details, some claimed that they simply don’t remember exactly when this specific group emerged from what was once a larger mix of high school companions. I see this as an indication that they were meant to come together; one could conjure endless possible stories of how seven women from Cleveland ended up together, “made a commitment to share life’s story together,” bound themselves with the perfect name: The Pleiades. 

 

Once they were an established friend group, my biological grandmother bestowed the Pleiades “treasurer” title upon herself. They often discussed their love of travel, so she began collecting money from each of the women every time they met. Soon enough, they had enough cash saved to plan a 50th birthday trip to Niagara-on-the-Lake. They remember staying at a dump with a nearby motorcycle gang, and that the trip was “slightly fabulous.” They knew this would be the first of many trips they would take together; this was only the beginning, soon, the Pleiades would find themselves across the Atlantic. 

 

Nobody knew that this would be the last trip Sally 1 would take. After saving money for four years, the Pleiades were approaching their next departure date, a trip to England. It was their 55th birthday trip, a continuation of their commitment to celebrate every fifth birthday with a special adventure. Sally’s obituary would appear in the Cleveland Jewish News, remembered as “treasurer of the Pleiades society.” 

 

Sally’s unexpected passing mirrored legends of a “Lost Pleiad,” a detail consistently present in stories about the Pleiades constellation. When the group came together, they named themselves the Pleiades, simply, because there were seven of them, like the seven sisters in the star cluster. It was an easy way to explain, when they were asked, why nobody else could join their group. They had plenty of other friends outside the group, a few of which admired them and longed to be a part of the Pleiades. It was only natural that other women in their orbit would want to join their monthly lunch plans, occasional international trips, and feel a part of this lifelong bond. Like the sisters in the sky, it was meant to be the seven of them. This image shattered when Sally died, only to be reborn when my Papa’s Subaru magazine illustrated an unknown component to the Pleiades story. Many astrological myths from around the world hold a familiar theme, a lost or missing sister. We see reminients of this myth in everyday objects even today. Picture a dice, each side marked with one to six black dots. They’re deliberately designed, so each set of parallel sides adds up to seven, an indication that although you cannot see the seven, it’s always there. 

 

The Pleiades saw this firsthand, too, on their 55th birthday trip to England. They were close to cancelling the trip when Sally died. Saving money for trips had been her idea in the first place, the trip was only a few months away, and they couldn’t imagine boarding the plane without her. They knew, though, that Sally would have wanted them to go, her heart would have broken at the thought of them calling off the trip. They ultimately decided to go, and had the most phenomenal trip. It, in so many ways, captured the true nature of their friendship. 

 

One day in England, they wandered around a small town looking for a place to have lunch. They were all getting hungry, picky, and could not find a place they agreed upon. They scanned menu after menu, nothing seemed to suit everybody. Finally, they chose a random restaurant, surely they would each manage to find something!  When they asked Joanne what she was getting to eat, she replied that she just planned to sit, there was absolutely nothing she wanted to order! To this day, the six women look back on this story and retell it with laughter. Laughter filled with love, the type of love that’s possible when you have spent eighty years getting to know someone’s quirks. When I heard this story time and time again on the phone, I laughed along with them, remembering the time I was in the same exact scenario with some of my best friends in Venice. 

 

Later in the trip, the Pleiades toured the Salisbury Cathedral, a detailed and grand early-English church, nestled in the countryside. When they arrived, they noticed a pure white, crystal dove perched on the pediment of the main door. This noisy, irreverent group got stone quiet, silently acknowledging their mutual understanding that this dove meant something greater. The bird was very much alive, but sat as still as a sculpture, like it would never fly away. Someone eventually muttered, “Sally’s here with us.” They all wanted to believe this, wanted to believe that the trip to England really had been the seven of them all along, so they did. They didn’t talk much about the dove afterwards, it was just one of the magical moments that demanded the six of them stay together. It was moments like these that tightened their unbreakable link, the link that pulled them close together when one needed support. In this emotional moment, the women did not even realize that the dove symbolized yet another parallel between themselves and the Greek tale that inspired their name. If they had dug just a little deeper into the ancient Greek Pleiades story, they would’ve been stunned to learn that in the tale, Zeus turned the sisters into doves before placing them up in the stars where we see them today. Unbeknownst to the Pleiades, their story mirrored that of their namesake. In my reflection, I now see that I continue to push this legacy forward, guided by the story of my namesake, Sally. 

 

As the first born granddaughter, I was named after her (S in Sally, S for Sydney). I was born late at night on September 26, she was born early morning of September 27. All my life, I’ve been told how similar I am to her. From the hook on the tip of my nose, to my childhood tomboy tendencies, the way I look with my hair in two braids, or to the deep love I have for my friends, I frequently provoke a “you have no idea how much you’re like my mommy” comment from my mom. I saw photos of her sealed in a plastic magnet frames on the fridge every time I walked in the kitchen growing up. Uncharacteristically of me, though, I never thought much of it. It was, and still is, extremely sad to think about the way she died, how young she was, the milestones my mother faced without her mom. I blocked it out of my head more than I was conscious of. Now, I recognize what an honor it is to have such a legacy to follow.

 

When the Pleiades returned home from England, they embarked on a new chapter of their friendship as a group of six. This time marked a new chapter for Grammy especially, beginning  when Fran invited her and Papa over for dinner and bridge. Grammy’s first husband, Irv, passed away three years earlier, she was single, and picked up Papa for dinner because she didn’t want it to seem like a date. He confessed that at home, he was having trouble cleaning out Sally’s office, so she offered to help. Later, as a thank you, he took her to dinner, to a restaurant 45-minutes away from home, somewhere they wouldn’t be seen. What would people think about this budding relationship if they knew? But, they got along well, comforted by the familiarity that comes from shared experiences, desires, and values. Grammy shared her plans to go on a spring vacation, Papa remarked that he hadn't traveled in ages, so she found a cruise and offered to book two single rooms. Papa found the offer unappealing, why couldn’t they just share a room?

“I barely know you!” Grammy exclaimed.

“Why don’t you get to know me then?” Papa smoothly replied.

Shortly after they went on a date, and the rest is history. 

 

I recently read a poem, To God, that Papa wrote when Sally died. I shed a tear, sharing the pain in his cry:

“Please tell me, where did my love go? 

Where is the grandma for our grandchildren to be, 

Where is the grandma that will hug and kiss them so tenderly,

Tell me God! Where did my love go?”

 

I cannot imagine the pain he must’ve felt while the stroke of his pen brought these thoughts into the world. While I cried reading his words, I also smiled, because the questions my heartbroken Papa asked were answered. The grandma for his grandchildren to be would soon come, and she would be sure to hug and kiss us with tenderness and care.

 

My Grammy is one of the most inspiring people I’ve ever known. Growing up, she was never referred to as a step-grandma, and had nobody told me otherwise, I never would’ve known that she wasn’t my blood relative. To her, all of the grandchildren were of equal importance, and we were showered with her love and attention, whether it be in the form of sloppy joes for dinner, handwritten birthday cards, or newspaper cutouts of things that might interest us. As a child, I clipped on her colorful, chunky earrings, wrapped myself in her big coats, and enjoyed strutting around the house in her shoes. As I grow older, I’m continuously in awe of the way she moves through life, always finding a reason to be positive and grateful. My Grammy is no stranger to tragedy and loss, and is somehow, still, the most supportive person in the lives of her family and friends. She dedicated her career in psychology to improving the lives of others, and this deep care for everyone else guides her personal world, too. She never fails to show up for the important moments, and she’s always there when I need advice or a good listener. She’s an organized planner, and still bears the responsibility of booking monthly lunch reservations for the Pleiades. 

 

The Pleiades, now 86-years-old, still maintain their lifelong friendship. Although I’ve always known that Grammy was in the same friend group as my biological grandmother, and that they’re all still friends today, they weren’t a part of my life growing up. The only one who knew me was Joanne, who attended my bat mitzvah. Unbeknownst to my twelve year old self, Joanne took notice of me that day; I made an impression on her, she says. 

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

 

4. Today

​

Since my bat mitzvah, a spring day in 2010, Grammy kept Joanne up to date on the happenings in my life. When I take a trip abroad, Grammy lets me know that Joanne will be so excited to hear about it. When I start a new internship, I’m informed that Joanne helped start the organization I’m working for and would love to talk to me about it sometime. When I write personal statements for job applications, Grammy forwards them on to Joanne to read, and I receive subsequent praise for my ideas, thoughts, and spirit. But me, ever too consumed in my own life, never thought much of the figure who cheered me on from afar. I’d never talked to her myself, never had any recollection of meeting her at my Bat Mitzvah. 

“She’s a Pleiad!” Grammy would tell me, to reiterate her importance and significance in our family’s life.

 

This year, we finally got serious about what had been a tentative lunch plan for far too long. My grandparents picked up some corned beef sandwiches and pickles from Jack’s Deli, a family staple. Then they picked me up, and we drove to Joanne’s home in Shaker Heights. On the drive there, Grammy reminded me the context of who I was heading to meet. 

“Joanne Lewis,” she began, “has been my best friend since I was four years old. You’ll see… we’re completely different people, and I mean, COMPLETELY different people, but we’ve never had an argument. 82 years of friendship, and we’ve never raised our voices at one another.” She went on about her relevance to me, “She lives vicariously through your travels. She was crazy and traveled the world when we were in college. Women didn’t do that back then. She’s crazy. After college when we all got married and moved back to Cleveland, she moved to New York City on her own to write the great American novel. She’ll tell you. She has artifacts from her travels all over her apartment, you’ll see. She was very involved with Facing History, make sure you talk about that with her.” 

This conversation sparked my excitement and curiosity. I hadn’t really thought that much about this lunch, my weekends home from college are characterized by trying to find adequate amounts of time to spend with my Cleveland-based family and friends. Now, though, I was excited to spend the next hour or so soaking up stories like a sponge.

 

Across the street from the new rock climbing gym I tried out a few months ago, I climbed out of Papa’s Audi, still bearing Sally’s old license plate, and held out my arm for Grammy to latch on. It was a cold afternoon and a thin layer of ice covered the parking lot. We waddled over to the door, got in the creaky elevator, and found Joanne waiting for us at her front door. I immediately noticed the eclectic decor, rocks, stones, sculptures, art on the walls. Her living room featured a chair known to be the most comfortable spot in the world, despite being carved out of wood. Joanne was warm, and began showing me all around. Grammy, the one always keeping people in check, motioned us back to the table where our corned beef sandwiches sat, still wrapped in paper. The grandparents got everything organized, unwrapped the sandwiches, set the table. Grammy and Joanne split a sandwich, and we dove into conversation about Joanne’s life when she was my age. She left Cleveland after high school to attend the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, where she shared a Mosher-Jordan dorm room with Grammy. Her junior year, she wanted to spend a year abroad. For some reason, she longed to see Europe. With all my traveling, she noted, I probably could understand how she felt. (I do).  She didn’t want to do a study abroad program. Women that age didn’t just travel, she said, so the programs designed for them at the time were too regimented and organized. She wanted to go where she pleased, meet people along the way, and feel free. She had $2,000 in savings and decided she would book a ticket to Europe and stay there until her money ran out. She ran out of the dining room and came back with a little slip of paper. 

 

“My original ticket for the boat I took to Europe. Can you believe that? A boat to Europe! Look right here… it was only $127.50 roundtrip.” We all laughed at how cheap it was to get to Europe back in her day, but there was not a mainstream travel-oriented culture back then like there is today. No scrolling through Airbnb’s in one’s spare time, or iPhone Apps to help you score cheap flight deals. No “Wanderlust” coffee table books or travel influencers. So despite the cheap journey, solo traveling to Europe, as a young Jewish woman, in the 1950s, was no small feat. She spoke about many of the places she visited, and brought up Berlin specifically, knowing that I spent time there last summer. She went to Berlin before the Berlin Wall even went up, but after the war. One day at a cafe, she met a man who asked if she wanted to see East Berlin. “Of course,” she responded, not one to pass up an adventure. She described the checkpoint separating West and East Berlin like an entryway into a different country, a different world. East Berlin looked freshly war-torn, and in hindsight, crossing into this environment, with a man she’d just met was an incredibly foolish decision. Which is how all of the best stories start, I suppose. 

 

Joanne was a great host, always taking breaks in her stories to make little changes at the table, ensuring it was set nicely. She brought out a pack of cookies and arranged them on a tray before leaving them be on the table. I noticed this as a stark contrast between the way my chaotic life Ann Arbor is characterized by the messy college house kitchen table, consistently covered in old snack wrappers and coffee mugs. She continued on about her life after Michigan, moving back to Cleveland to work at a budding travel agency. She went to Peru, found her way to Machu Picchu while it was being excavated. This satisfied her adventurous spirit for a few years, but she moved on to New York City. She wanted to be on her own to work on the next great American novel, as Grammy told me in the car. She had no interest in getting married and starting a family like the rest of the Pleiades. That was until she got a call from a Cleveland lawyer Grammy knew who was visiting New York City for work and wanted to meet. Years later, she was back in Cleveland having married said lawyer, Bob Lewis, integrating herself into his household of three teenage sons. 

 

Eventually, we got back up and walked around to finish the tour we started before lunch. My eyes shifted from travel memorabilia, to newspaper clippings, to family photos, paintings, and to a collection of words in a frame, a memory from when she was broke in New York and gave thoughtful words as gifts to friends and family for special occasions. We said goodbye, exchanged emails, and I meant it when I said we would soon be in touch. I felt captivated and inspired by her fearless personality and the encouraging wisdom she passes on through her stories. My mind churned the whole drive home, and I was excited to debrief with my grandparents at Papa’s birthday dinner that night. 

 

The dinner began as most special occasions do, the whole family gathered around a large, round table, ordering more food than we could possibly ever eat. No one worried about that, though, as Sloan, the singular token grandson in the family, would surely finish everyone’s leftovers. Papa beamed with pride, always overjoyed to sit with all of his grandkids at the same table. Once I left for college, it was relatively rare for us to all be together. They, like usual, balk at me for never being home, complain with pride that I’m always traveling to some new place across the world, they can never keep track of me. 

 

But, the fireworks still going off in my head made the dinner a bit unusual. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Pleiades, Joanne’s stories, my biological grandmother, who, had the world been just a little bit different, would’ve been sitting at this table, and my Grammy, smiling at me from a few places down. Typically, family dinners for me are filled with whispered jokes and gulping down laughter with my sister, gossiping with my cousins, and trying to politely explain that no, I still don’t know where I’m moving next year, I don’t know where I’m working, I don’t really know what I want to do with my life. But this dinner, I drowned out all the side conversations, as I often do when my mind gets hyper-focused, and tuned into my thoughts. I asked a lot of questions, only to find that the answers were more exciting than I could have speculated. When Papa told me the story of purchasing the Subaru, I knew I needed to get over my recent spell of writer’s block and tell the Pleiades’ story. I was overwhelmed by the role fate has played into their friendships, their stories, and my connection to it all.

 

When I was a kid, and Papa and I were out to lunch, just the two of us, he told me that he believes in reincarnation. It would be impossible not to; it can’t be a coincidence that I, the first born grandchild, was so strikingly similar to her, to Sally. It couldn’t just be a coincidence that I was born only a few hours shy of what would have been her 65th birthday. That I’ve reminded him of her, in mind, body, and spirit, more and more as I grow older. He might not even remember this conversation, but it stuck with me. Coincidences mean more to me than they do to most people, I think. When something strikes me as exceptionally moving, I get overtaken by excitement. That “something” could range from an unbelievably accurate weekly horoscope, to realizing I have a mutual friend with someone I’ve just met, to hearing a song come on shuffle and realize that it’s lyrics are painting a picture of my life’s current moment. I am unable to contain my loud gasps or shrieks when these coincidences happen, when I find a small detail in the vastness of the universe that makes our world feel so small. That’s what diving deeper into the lives of the Pleiades has been like for me, constantly hearing new stories that send me into this spiral of overwhelmed excitement. How could it be possible that these women crossed paths at such a young age, remained significantly relevant in each other's lives as young adults, and found themselves to forever be “inevitably fixed in a pattern together.”? How could it be real that, as I listened to their stories, I saw so much of myself in them? 

 

The next day, before I drove back to Ann Arbor, my mom and I sifted through an old scrapbook, the one that contained all of the memories from her mother’s death. We rediscovered Joanne’s eulogy, a poem Papa wrote after her passing, old family photos, a collection of yearly recaps that Papa wrote annually (until Sally passed away), and an autobiography she wrote as a high school freshman. When I was back in my Ann Arbor home, I immediately got to work, refreshed at how motivated I felt to write. 

 

By spring break, I had spoken to all of the Pleiades, and the writing process was going as planned. The day after break, I was to drive to Cleveland to join their standing lunch plan. I would finally meet all the Pleiades, hear their stories first hand, observe their in-person dynamic, and see the printed photos they promised to bring. But, I was in Seattle over spring break, the site of the first U.S coronavirus outbreak. Once I was back in Ann Arbor, Grammy called me to suggest I postpone my visit. I could meet the Pleiades in a few weeks, maybe, when this virus calms down, but for now, it’s just not a good idea. 

 

“I wouldn’t want you to blame yourself if any of us got sick,” she told me. Only a few days later, it was abundantly clear that this lunch would not be rescheduled for any time soon. The World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a pandemic. My classes moved online, my graduation cancelled, and one by one, my favorite Ann Arbor spots closed indefinitely. Such huge, unexpected changes, and yet, I found myself surprisingly at ease. Goodbyes are daunting, I’m not one to take them lightly, and my looming departure from the people and places I’ve called home these past four years terrified me. I also immediately recognized how lucky and privileged I am. I have no underlying health conditions, I’m in the lowest risk age demographic for coronavirus, and I was able to quarantine in my college house with my best friends. I found myself grateful for the unconventional opportunity to stay cooped up in the house with some of the most important people in my life. 

 

On top of that, I couldn’t ignore the magnitude of this situation on a global and interpersonal scale. We’re in such an important political moment, and I’m lucky to have healthcare, access to food, and housing, unlike so many others around the world. Also, all too quickly, the threat of the virus loomed close to home. I felt scared and sad for my grandparents. I began to worry about the Pleiades, these inspiring, energetic, intelligent women who, over the past few weeks, I began looking up to immensely. All of whom, now, were in the age group most vulnerable to severe cases of the virus. Their fates rested on how seriously the rest of the population would take quarantine, how drastically the curve would flatten, and how their bodies would react to the virus if they were to catch it. 

 

I hadn’t even had time to fully process these thoughts before my mom called me with sad news; Fran’s husband tested positive for COVID-19. He had been sick for years, I knew, and my mom reported that he would likely not make it, it was only a matter of time. Fran got tested, too, we don’t yet know her results, she’s doing fine. She wasn’t able to visit him in the hospital, and coronavirus eliminated the possibility of an in-person goodbye. 

 

A few days later, my mom called again and I knew what was coming, Fran’s husband passed away, and Fran’s coronavirus test came back positive. Luckily, Fran was asymptomatic, but she remained quarantined alone, not able to attend her husband’s small graveside funeral. For the first time in their eight decades of friendship, the Pleiades faced a major life event without the ability to physically come together. So, they did what we’re all forced to do in this unprecedented time, conveyed their love and support through the phone.

 

This story, and other stories like it circulating the internet, affirm why amidst this pandemic, I have a relatively positive attitude; I am hyper aware of the protection my age and privilege afford me. Yet, I can’t ignore the sadness I feel with every expedited goodbye. I wasn’t ready yet to say goodbye to my life as a Michigan student, to my nights in the packed, sweaty bars I thought I hated, to the daily walks through the Diag, to the familiar shelves of Literati Bookstore, and most importantly, to my friends. 

 

My freshman year, I remember feeling like the luckiest person alive. I was so nervous to come to college. Leaving behind a friend group I’d known forever, I couldn’t imagine finding people who would make me feel just as comfortable in my own skin, who would understand me just as deeply, or who shared my interests and sense of humor. My nerves quickly evaporated on move in day; I met girls in my hall and around my dorm who instantly reminded me of my friends back home. In the following months, we made new friends and expanded our social network, and by the end of the year, I knew I had already found the people I was looking for.   

 

Four years later, I’m quarantined with these same friends, in our dingy but lively Ann Arbor home, making the most of our last moments all living in the same city. We fill our mismatched mugs with morning coffee, attempt to focus on our virtual classes, play game after game of Bananagrams, tune into our TV staples, make pasta at least once a day, climb onto the roof when the sun peeks out, and try our best to avoid thinking about the looming departure dates. They kept popping out of nowhere; someone’s parents would deliver abrupt travel plans over the phone, and suddenly, another bedroom was empty, another goodbye was in my rearview.  

 

One typical quarantine evening we congregated in the living room, flipping our attention between the TV, our personal screens, and the collective conversation. I balanced my computer and my book, The Seven Sisters of the Pleiades, on my lap, simultaneously reading and typing notes, when one of my friends asked me more about the Pleiades. As I gave her an overview of their story, she realized that there were seven of us sitting around the couch. Over the next couple of days she turned this realization into art, sketching each one of us over a photo of the Pleiades star cluster. When her parents called the next day to say it was time to come home, a layer of sadness hummed over our attempt to make her last day special. Should we think of a new game to play? What pasta shape did she want for her last dinner? 

 

In the midst of this brainstorm I received a string of three texts from my mom: 

“You can see the Pleiades tonight look it up

Near Venus I think that’s what they just said on the news

He just said Venus will be inside the Pleiades tonight”

​

My mom didn’t realize that the Pleiades are visible most nights around wintertime, but she was right about Venus. After some light investigation, I learned that for the first time in eight years, Venus would appear close to the Pleiades in the night sky, making the star cluster even brighter and more noticeable than usual. And, if you haven’t already guessed, I’m taking this as a sign. The Pleiades, my enduring symbol of friendship and sisterhood, glowed fiercely that night, as if to remind me that my friendships will persist. Soon I’ll return home to Cleveland, not knowing when I’ll see these friends next, or if we will ever again reside in the same city. But, with the nightly opportunity to “look up to locate the constellation Pleiades, and find there the winking light,” I know we’ll forever be connected.