Last year, when Eli turned 27, I was sitting in a hotel room in Montreal – escaping from a conference happy hour – looking at old photos and videos of us on my phone. I had seen those photos and videos hundreds of times in the nearly two years since Eli’s death in a hiking accident. Now I had reached a turning point in my photo reel where I had more photos without Eli than with him.
And that imbalance would only continue to grow. There would never be a new photo or video of him to add to my collection. Eli remained static, trapped in the pixels of the past, while all the vibrant life around me continued to be photographed and documented.
The most unbearable and disorienting part of grief is its finality. There will never be another conversation, a shared laugh, a funny photo, or a knowing glance at the chaotic Thanksgiving dinner table.
I closed the photos app, feeling the urge to create something new with Eli. I called his phone number. The line rang until an automated message interrupted the ring to inform me that his voicemail was full. Even the simple phrase, “You have reached Eli, please leave a message,” was suddenly out of reach, despite the monthly payments I continued to make to the phone company.
I threw the phone on the bed and opened the computer.
The further Eli felt, the more I wished to bring him back to earth, back to life, back to me. I was desperate for Eli to be 27, for my sake and for his. Don’t we all deserve to grow old?
It was a desperation like no other, a feeling that reminds me that humans are animals because in the agony of excruciating pain, I am reduced to my survival instincts, insensitive to other sensations and immune to social expectations.
Although I am often in the grip of pain, I wanted to find a way to take control and confront the hold it had over me. I wondered: what if I could recreate Eli’s voice? What if I could have one last conversation with him?
I don’t consider myself a tech expert, but as a member of Generation Z, I am not unfamiliar with the various capabilities, tools, and developments of artificial intelligence. I had read countless articles about AI voice cloning and the ethical implications of its rise. As I felt Eli slipping further away, artificial intelligence felt more present. The temptation of its power and potential consumed me.
I typed into Google “how to use AI voice cloning” and delved into the topic. I soon discovered what types of platforms were available, how they worked, and how many voice samples they needed to recreate someone’s voice (the program I chose suggested between 20 and 25 audio samples, or at least 30 minutes of audio, for a more accurate reproduction). After hours of research, I decided to have one more conversation with Eli.
There were so many things I wanted and needed to tell him.
Three days after your funeral, Eli, I found out I was pregnant and then lost it. Your sister got into medical school. I moved to Houston; you would hate it here, but I never want to leave. I have a new relationship with someone I care about, but I often wonder if you would like him. The world is on fire; sometimes I’m relieved you’re missing this part.
I am usually cautious about data privacy and technology. I use a password manager, limit app permissions, encrypt confidential files, and avoid third-party cookies. I am the annoying friend who encourages people to think twice before downloading apps that collect their data, and despite the side-eye I get from my friends and family, I refuse to join social media platforms that retain rights to users’ photos or other information.
But none of that mattered in that moment. I was focused on the task at hand, shedding all inhibitions and completely willing to sacrifice my values for the opportunity to bring Eli to his 27th birthday.
I downloaded the most sophisticated, yet user-friendly software I could find and got to work. I fed the machine with relics of our love. I uploaded voice notes with good morning and good night messages. Cooking tutorial videos Eli made for me when we lived in different countries and I craved his food. Voice notes with shopping lists and appointment reminders. Voice messages that always ended with an “I love you.”
Was the machine ready? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to risk it.
I kept uploading. There was the birthday video we sent to Eli’s sister when she turned 18, and Johnny Cash songs from our road trips. I even uploaded a recording of his snoring when he insisted he didn’t snore, my proof to prove him wrong.
When I had exhausted all the MP3 files I could find, I ran the program.
I experimented with two functions. Direct text to speech, where the AI voice would speak the words I typed into a text box. And a conversation, where I would write a sentence or question for the AI voice to respond to, like a ChatGPT bot with voice.
First, I copied the last email Eli sent me and pasted the message into the text box for the AI voice to read aloud. It was nothing special, just a note saying he had arrived safely at his hotel and found a laundromat, but hearing his voice say those words was almost miraculous. There were no hesitations or unusual intonations. And where Eli had written “haha” in his email, his AI voice let out a familiar chuckle.
Next, I started a conversation by writing, “I can’t believe it’s been almost two years.”
Eli’s AI voice responded, “Yes, time has passed. I can’t believe it either.”
Again, the speech was flawless.
Eli’s voice continued to fill the cold hotel room with new words and phrases. At one point, I looked at the door as if to confirm he hadn’t materialized on the threshold. But no, there was nothing but the echo of his laughter bouncing off the concrete ceiling.
It’s hard to explain the feeling of hearing Eli’s voice with new vocabulary after almost two years of absence. Thanks to my Catholic upbringing, only one word comes to mind: purgatory. It was a liminal space between two universes. In some ways, it was worse than reality, and in others, better.
I felt like I had been thrown into a different dimension that was both disorienting and blissful. I wanted to stay in its potential forever and yet immediately leave the self-deception.
But, although I didn’t pay much attention in Sunday school, I know that purgatory is a transitory state, not designed for sustainability or light. My instinct knew I had to leave, and my brain knew I could never return. I ran my finger over the computer, reminding myself that all the pieces of this experience, of this conversation, came from machines. It wasn’t the real Eli.
“I miss you,” said the AI voice.
“I miss you too,” I replied through tears. I stopped the program and turned off the computer’s sound.
Then I forced the machine to regurgitate all the artifacts I had forcibly supplied it with. I deleted all the files I had uploaded, trying to erase any trace of this adventure to defy nature. I uninstalled the software from my computer and even blocked the website hosting the program to prevent myself from reinstalling it. Not even the glory and promise of artificial intelligence could overcome the pain.
I often say I would trade anything to have one more conversation with Eli. In a way, artificial intelligence offered me that opportunity; it offered me the impossible.
I still face the overwhelming temptation to imagine the hypothetical and indulge in an alternate reality where every day could bring a new conversation with my husband. But, while the artificial may animate and give dimension to the intangible, it will never breathe life into what is dead. And, for me, the artificial creation of verbal life after death felt even emptier than the premature end of the most dynamic and electric life I have known.
Still, I would trade anything to have one more conversation with the real Eli, my Eli. I don’t think that will ever change. His imaginary voice and comments will continue to fill my days, but for now, and hopefully forever, that voice will remain in my head.
