Once again, Mr. Death has come to call, reminding me of his rude and awful power.

Two friends—cherished colleagues—have just died within a week of each other. Neither died of the Wuhan Virus (COVID-19). This was up close and personal.

Until now, the horrifying global death toll has been a statistic, too overwhelming to process personally. Now, a woman, and a great scholar, with whom I’ve worked since the mid-1970s (Dr. Diana Russell), and another woman, a gallant warrior tilling a different field entirely, and with whom I’ve worked since about 2004 (Helen Freedman) are gone, forever gone.

Others knew them far better than I did; they were polar opposites in terms of their work—and yet, I cherished each of them. So many people have been part of the tapestry of my life, and that tapestry has been unraveling for a long time. Beloved figures have been fading away, disappearing, since the mid-1940s, when my maternal grandparents died and then, in 1967, when my own father died.

I refuse to remove the names and contact information of those who have died from my various lists. By now, there are hundreds of feminists whom I keep close to me, and whose names I see whenever I consult my contact lists. It is my way of remembering them, of refusing to allow Death to us part.