The Boulder Star, 2025

The Boulder Star was first lit in 1947 as a Christmas decoration for the city of Boulder. I first saw it in 2018. I had decided to move to Boulder and was staying in a rental home for two months while searching for a permanent residence. Things didn’t go as planned, and I found a house before my rental was set to begin, but I decided that a two-month stay in Boulder would be a good way to get to know the town I would be moving to. Additionally, Emery, my reason for moving there, was only ten minutes away from the rental house.

My rental house was a log cabin situated on three acres, far enough from the street that most people didn’t know it existed. A neighborhood had grown up around it, along with shops and restaurants, making it the perfect blend of rural and urban. When I say people didn’t know it was there, I’m not exaggerating. I had a pizza delivery guy call me from his car, directly in front of the cabin, saying he couldn’t find the house.

The log cabin was brought to Boulder in the 1920s from the mountains, where it was initially built. The great-granddaughter of the original owner was a woman about my age, and we connected instantly. Her grandfather owned a parcel of land on the outskirts of Boulder and wanted to build a house for his family on it. However, due to the high price of lumber, he decided to relocate his mountain cabin, log by log, to Boulder instead. Each log was numbered much like a Lincoln log project, the granddaughter told me. It was such a special place with a unique history, and I was honored to call the cabin my home for two months.

The outline of a star on Flagstaff Mountain took my breath away the first time I saw it, while driving back to the log cabin from Emery’s house. Not knowing if it was someone’s elaborate Christmas decoration in the mountains or a Boulder landmark, I pulled over to the side of the road for a better look and sat in my car, staring at the star outline on the mountain. I called Emery when I got home to ask her about the star. She only knew that it was lit on Veterans Day and turned off at the beginning of the year. It felt like a guiding star, and I was awed by its evening presence in the Boulder sky. Connecting with the star became a part of my evening routine.

The star wasn’t always a star. In the 1950s, Colorado A&M (now Colorado State University) moved the lights around to form an A. In 1958, the Colorado School of Mines performed a similar prank, changing the lights to create an M. It was later converted into a peace sign in the 1960s. At one point, “suspected communists” painted the bulbs red in an attempt to recreate the famous red communist star. In the 80s, a group of local environmentalists was upset by the electricity use, so they cut down the wires and removed the bulbs, which were all eventually replaced, and the star was back up. Today, the 365 LED bulbs use electricity generated by wind power.

The star was lit during the Iranian hostage crisis in 1979, the COVID-19 shutdown in March 2020, the Boulder shooting in March 2021, and the Marshall fires in December 2021. Its glow is not just for show; it represents a beacon of hope that embodies the spirit of the holiday season, is a symbol of solidarity during celebratory and tragic times, and provides a silent tribute to veterans. It’s been a part of Boulder’s winter landscape and history, and Boulder residents have been passionate about their star since 1947. The first time I sat in my car and stared at it with awe, it became a part of my Boulder history as well.

When I moved into my house in Boulder in August, after several months of renovation, I had forgotten about the star. I didn’t remember it until I was walking upstairs to my bedroom on the evening of Veterans’ Day. At the top of my stairs is a large picture window. When I looked out the window, because I always do when I go up the stairs, I saw the star. I was so excited that I went out to the small deck off my room for a better view. Being able to see the Boulder Star from my house was a gift I hadn’t anticipated.

After my Dad died in September of 2024, I remember being comforted by the star that is lit on Veterans’ Day, giving it even more importance, given that Dad was a veteran. I sat out on my small bedroom balcony, bundled up in a blanket, looking at the star and feeling Dad’s presence. I could hear him say, “Laur, I’ve got a story about the Boulder Star.” Of course, he did, because Dad always had a story that seemed to be waiting for an entrance. Maybe he knew someone who had helped build it, or someone who had helped transform it into a peace sign in the 1960s, or maybe Dad had hiked up to see the star in the mid-50s, given that we lived in Evergreen, which wasn’t too far from Boulder, or another interesting anecdote. I’m sure many of Dad’s stories only held a thread of truth, as Dad was a master of embellishment, but the thread was substantial enough to prompt the listener to ask questions. He could spin a minor detail into a good story, and what he would likely tell me about the Boulder Star would be far more interesting than anything I had learned. Dad was a Renaissance man who knew a little about a lot. I missed that. I missed Dad. I felt sad that I could no longer call him.

Six weeks later, when I was home from Kansas City after spending Christmas there with family, I continued to find the star in the evening, knowing it would be turned off in early January. The last time I saw the star was New Year’s Eve, when I was driving home from a party at a friend’s house. I left the party early because something felt off emotionally, and I wasn’t feeling very social, despite it being a fun party with good company, decorations, and food. I was concerned about Emery and her family, who were all battling the flu, and Emery seemed to be struggling the most. I thought about stopping by for reassurance on my way home, but I knew Emery would be upset with me for exposing myself to the flu if I did. Instead, I went home, and for the first time in my adult life, I didn’t wait until 12:01 am to go to bed. I did not usher in 2025, but it came just the same. I glanced at the star on my way up to my room and was in bed by 9:30. Emery would be in an ambulance headed to the hospital seventeen hours later.

The Boulder Star’s last night to shine last winter was January 3rd. January 3 was also Emery’s last night in this world.

The star looked different to me this year, and I was far more emotional when I first saw it in the window in my stairwell. I remembered words I had read shortly after Emery died that stuck with me, and when I saw the star, I understood why.

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
~ Eskimo Proverb

I see the Boulder Star, the grandest of stars in my piece of the sky right now, as a gift from Emery, who loved a grand gesture. She is the reason I moved to this beautiful mountain town, and she is the first person I called when I first saw the star.

In the endless, vast sky, you are every star in the sky, my darling Emery, and right now, you are my Boulder Star, the brightest one in the sky.

I Named Her Wanda

When something new comes into my life that’s going to be around for a while, or maybe forever, I name it. My new knee, which I got two years ago, is Rhoda. My car is Loretta. I once had a computer I called Timmy.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I had named my grief, and her name is Wanda. I don’t know why her name is Wanda or why she’s a female, or why she wears a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt that has seen better days. It just is. And so I followed the prompt and wrote about Wanda. Given her ongoing presence, it seemed only fitting that I get to know her. The following is my written response to the prompt to personify my grief. I wrote it in March 2025 and found it in my files yesterday. I had forgotten about the essay, but not about Wanda. She’s been a constant.

“Ok, Wanda, show me what you’ve got.”


Without thinking about what I was doing, I had named my grief, and her name is Wanda. I don’t know why her name is Wanda or why she’s a female, or why she wears a Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt that has seen better days. It just is. And so I followed the prompt and wrote about Wanda. Given her ongoing presence, it seemed only fitting that I get to know her. The following essay is my written response to the prompt to personify my grief. I wrote it in March 2025 and reread it for the first time yesterday.

*****

Wanda has become a presence in my life, making her way into every spot where I live, rarely leaving me alone. Her entrance became the blanket I crawled under to take refuge from the world and myself, in a protective mode. Wanda is my grief. She arrived on January 4th, the day my daughter, Emery, died. She came without fanfare or invitation and hasn’t left. In the early days, she scared me and made me feel uncomfortable. I wanted her to leave, and when she didn’t, I wanted to know more about her. And so I asked.

She was seated across from me in the slip-covered chair, facing the small couch where I was seated, the same chair Emery always sat in when she was in this room. She stretched her legs out in front of her, crossed them at the ankle, looked at me, and, with a gentle, soft voice, said,

“I know you don’t want me to be here, but I am, because you need me. I will become less and less of a presence in your life as time moves on, but I’ll never leave completely. I’m here to teach you, darlin’, and you’re going to learn a lot from me. About life, death, love, and who you are now, who is not the same person you were before January 4th.”

“I’m going to learn from you?” I asked. I doubted that the skinny woman with day-old mascara smeared below her eyes and the dull, wrinkled skin of a smoker had anything to teach me. But before I could finish my thought, she added, “I will be the one to give you the roadmap to yourself, your new self, the self that is trying to navigate how you live your life without Emery, while keeping her close to you.”

There was a wisdom in her eyes that I wasn’t ready to accept, but I was curious. This presence, whom I’ve embodied as a skinny woman with sad, tired eyes named Wanda, came into my life on January 4th. She’s bigger than her small frame that is slumped in my chair. She’s all encompassing, and now I share my house, my feelings, my everything with her. I’m not sure where I end and she begins.

My morning routine is to write a letter to Emery. I’ve done this almost every day since her death. The pages consist of all the texts and phone calls that have no place to go. I have a small altar set up in Emery’s honor with photos of her and of us, along with small trinkets—stones, pink quartz, and a few heart-shaped rocks I found on the beach in Oregon. It is the first thing I look at in the early morning light as I sip my coffee and write my words to her. Wanda is always present for the ritual. Actually, Wanda is always present, but in the early morning, as I write through my tears, her presence feels stronger than at any other time.

I thought about the early days, when I shared an Airbnb in Boulder with my sons and their families for a month, as I was too afraid to be alone in my house. I thought about Wanda during those early days. I felt her presence. It never left me.

I continued our conversation.

“During those early days with my family, I longed for a break from you — a moment of returning to myself. A moment to feel joy, yet you never left. I felt you in the dark bedroom where I spent so much time sleeping. I needed a break from you, Wanda.”

“I did leave you alone during those early days. A few times. You just didn’t notice.”
“When?” I asked.
“One of the times was the night in that rental house when you, your sons, and your daughter-in-laws were all sitting in the room at the back of the house, playing Ransom Notes. Do you remember?”

I nodded.


“You were all laughing with the words you had come up with to answer the questions you had been given. At one point, you said, “It feels good to laugh. I wasn’t in the room. I had stepped out on the back porch to have a smoke. You felt joy, and you laughed, and it was necessary.”

My grief stepped out of the room for a smoke. Now we were getting somewhere.

I remembered the moment and how good it felt to laugh with my boys and daughter-in-laws. The laughter increased with each round. The one that made us laugh the most was when we had to write an ad for Viagra with the words we had drawn. There were tears in my eyes when we read our answers to each other, and the tears were different than the ones that had wetted my face off and on, every day since January 1, when our nightmare began and Emery was rushed to the hospital.

“Ok, you’re right, but why are you still here? I need a break from you, Wanda. You are the heavy cloak, I can’t shrug, and I’m so tired of carrying it.”

“I know you are, darlin’, but I’m here for a reason and a mission, and there’s not a lot I can do about it. Love sent me. You know we always work as a team, with love leading, and when she had nowhere to go, I took over. I wouldn’t be here if your love hadn’t been so deep, so present, so pure for your daughter. I know you’re going to have your own timeline and I can’t interfere with that, but I’ll tell you somethin’…the sooner you get used to me, the easier it will be for you, for us, because honey, I’m not goin’ anywhere. Maybe we could at least be friends, given that we’re already roommates.

Beneath her formidable, gritty presence was an emotion I hadn’t considered, yet she had told me multiple times. Love. Love sent her, and despite her tough-girl attitude, there was a softer, gentler side to her, which was her reason for coming in the first place. Love.

“You just tell me what you need and I’ll do what I can to help you.”
Wanda had moved from the chair to the other side of the couch when she saw my tears.

“I want you to go away,” I said, but counter to my words, I moved in closer to her and rested my head on her bony shoulder.

“ I can’t go away, but maybe if you can think of me as the place to put the love that you have for your girl. I can be that vessel for you. But I can’t leave, hon. It’s just how it works.”

I needed a place to put all the love, all the anguish, all of the pain, and Wanda, the most unsuspecting person I could have ever imagined, was offering me space.

The nights were the hardest, and although Wanda wasn’t always as present during the day, she knew the night shift was hers. I looked Wanda and, with hesitancy, said,
“I’m not going to be your friend, but your company is oddly starting to feel comforting. Maybe because love sent you and love doesn’t get it wrong.…”
Wanda interrupted before I could finish, “That’s a start, hon. We’ll go from there.”

I picked up a photo of Emery and me taken on a hike and smiled. I took in the memory first, knowing that the sadness would come later, but for now, I just smiled. I looked up and Wanda was gone. Probably out on my front porch having a smoke, but I knew she’d be back because she was following what love put into place and was the vessel to hold my loss.

A few minutes later, I opened up my computer to write and looked at my screensaver — a photo of Emery and me, with her babies, Arlo and Muna, seated in between us on my garden swing. It hit me harder than usual, even though it’s a photo I see every time I open my computer. I closed my computer and sobbed.



And there was Wanda, right next to me, her hand gently patting my back.

“I know, hon… I know.”

She Loved to Garden – 2016

*an edited essay originally written in 2016

Mother/Daughter and our shared love of digging in the dirt

My daughter is learning how to be a farmer.  The same daughter who didn’t hide her disdain for my reaction of delight to my Mother’s Day gift of a rototiller when she was five. Emery had not been consulted, and she was not pleased. She asked me why I couldn’t want stuff like the “other” moms wanted for Mother’s Day, like jewelry or perfume or makeup.  I’m not sure if any of my mom friends wanted makeup for Mother’s Day, but I understood what she was asking me. Clad in overalls, work boots, and an embarrassing amount of dirt under my fingernails, I gave myself a sweeping gesture with the arm that wasn’t holding the shovel and asked her jokingly, “Do I look like the kind of person who would ask for makeup for a gift?” At the same time, I understood what she was saying, with her emphasis on, like the other moms. She just hadn’t seen the other moms in their more casual element. I’m sure they also had days they wore slippers to the grocery store because they were faster to put on. Without naming names, I could name one.

Out of my three children, it was Emery who spent the most time with me in my gardens. This was partly because she didn’t have a lot of say in the matter, as most of our days were spent at home, and there was always something that needed to be taken care of in the garden. Emery was the one who would follow behind me on the flagstone paths I had laid, asking me the names of the flowers and shrubs. I told her the Latin names because, after working at a garden center where we were required to use them, it had become a habit for me. I had no idea she was really listening to my answers.

While still in kindergarten, Emery referred to most of my shrubs and several of the perennials by their Latin names. This is not a typical thing for a kindergartner to do, but she had done it for so long that it became normal.  While discussing the spirea bushes, Emery would ask which ones I was referring to— the Vanhouttes or the Japonicas?  She preferred the Vanhouttes as they reminded her of a fountain with white water and thought the Japonicas (princess spirea) were “show-offs.” She was right. They were.

When Emery was in kindergarten, my flower garden became very important to her because, unbeknownst to me, my clever little girl was hatching a plan.  Her teacher, whom she loved dearly, tutored kids in the summer in areas where they needed extra help. Emery wanted more help in reading, but I think what she really wanted was more time with her teacher, whom she adored. Emery wanted their lessons to take place on the swing in the garden, because “it was the nicest view we had.”

After a few visits with Miss L, Emery began referring to my garden as the Garden of Love. She decided it would be the location for Miss L’s wedding. Miss L wasn’t dating anyone at the time, or at least that I was aware of, and when I mentioned that to Emery, she didn’t seem overly concerned; instead, she asked where the best spot would be for her to stand when the photographer came to take pictures, and did I have the phone number for the newspaper? (This was in 1996, when most people had daily delivery of the local newspaper.)  I told her under the arch, definitely under the rose-covered arch. She had sucked me right into her plan, and I was an eager participant, scheming for a bride who didn’t yet have a groom. She was specific about all the details… who to invite, what she would wear (her second decision after the location), the music and the cake, which would be the only food served at the wedding—yet still, no mention of a groom.  The only single man Emery knew was her Uncle Bill, who lived in Seattle, and at one point, she mentioned that he would probably be the groom.  Minor details.

The wedding plans faded as Emery moved into first grade, but once again, she became obsessed with her teacher,  who looked like Snow White, but who already had her prince. 

We did not have a wedding in our garden of love that summer, but several years later, I attended Miss L’s wedding with Emery. As we watched her exchange her vows, Emery looked at me, and without words, I knew exactly what she was thinking—the garden of love and the arch of roses. And yes, it would have been beautiful.

Emery’s take on the beautiful corner of the yard had me seeing it differently, whether weeding, spreading compost, planting, or simply sitting on the swing and enjoying it. It truly was a garden of love; regardless of if a wedding was taking place there or not, love was always present.

Similar seeds for a love of working the earth had been planted for me when I was about the same age Emery had been when she first took an interest in my garden. I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house in the summer, where my Papa spent his days gardening in his expansive garden behind their house. I marveled at the bounty he’d bring into the kitchen at the end of the day and was eager to try new foods I had never tried before, such as okra, turnips, and hominy, all of which my mom would never cook or eat. It was my Papa who showed me the magic of planting a seed in the ground, and after a little bit of work and what seemed like a very long time, it would grow into something that could be eaten. That was nothing short of a miracle for me. 

A few years later, I planted my own garden—a small, weedy patch in the back corner of our yard, where I planted a handful of watermelon seeds.  Much to my surprise, it worked, and the shiny black oval seeds grew into watermelons that looked just like the ones on the front of the seed packet. While tending my little weedy patch of a garden, I discovered a large watermelon hidden behind a tangle of vines and weeds that looked ready to be picked. I sat down, broke it open, and enjoyed the fruits of my labor. It wasn’t cold or sliced, but it was the best watermelon I had ever eaten. I ate the whole watermelon, its juice running down my chin to my chest while I buried my face in the warm pink fruit, pausing only to spit the seeds out.  Digging in the dirt was in my genes, and I’m proud to claim that it has become a part of my daughter’s genetic makeup as well.

Emery and her husband, Miles, recently purchased acreage outside of Ft Collins, Colorado, and are learning how to be permaculture farmers.  Along with chickens and bees, they will also be raising goats.  When Emery was young, we spent a lot of time at the petting farm near our house, and the goat pen was always her favorite.  She’d talk to the goats as if she were their mother—scolding, praising, and trying to teach the aggressive ones manners.  Fast forward twenty years, and Emery has found her goats again.  The same little girl who was deathly afraid of silver fish had no problem taking on a pen full of rambunctious goats, while I kept a safe distance on the other side of the gate. 
A few nights ago, Emery texted me from Taos, where she and Miles were at a workshop for permaculture farming.

“I got my spirit from you, Mom.”

I read those words, paused,  then reread them.  I didn’t want to stop reading them.  It’s beautiful to see yourself in your kids, and even more beautiful when they see themselves in you.

To you, Emery, who at one point wished for makeup, not rototillers, for me, along with manicured hands, but at the same time, insisted on spending time in my Garden of Love, because it was the best view we had. I loved sharing my love for gardening with you, but now it’s your turn.  Now I get to follow you as we walk your land, and you point out all the plants you and Miles have put into the ground, along with the many gifts Mother Nature has planted before you.  Keep digging into the rocky Colorado dirt, my beautiful girl, and you’ll find treasures that you never imagined…the biggest one being yourself.

Tears and unexpected comfort.

I hired a car for my ride home from the airport after my recent trip to Costa Rica.  Lately, I’ve been giving myself the gift of taking the easy option because anything else feels too complex, and I don’t seem to be able to do complex things right now.  I was returning from a week in Costa Rica with my son-in-law, Miles, and grandchildren, Arlo and Muna, who moved there in August.  They live in the small town of Nosara, where they had spent some time as a family in previous years.  It had been Emery and Miles’ dream to live there for a year, giving the kids a multicultural and bilingual life.  After Emery died, Miles felt like it would be an easier place to heal than Boulder, where the presence of Emery’s absence was overwhelming.  After seeing their life there, I agreed even more with his decision.  It was a special week,  ending with Muna’s 6th birthday on my last day.  

There have been many difficult firsts during my family’s initial year since Emery’s death, including the grandchildren’s birthdays.  Muna’s birthday celebration, with a group of new friends who came to the house for a party, was bittersweet.  I was thrilled to see her with girls she has already designated as her “best friends,”  and sad that Emery wasn’t there to witness it with Miles and I. Emery would be proud of Arlo and Muna and the way they’ve navigated not only a new place to live, but also a new school, new friends and a new language, all on the heels of losing their Mama. 

The first are hard, and there have been far more than I anticipated, but with each one, I’m letting myself feel the pain while leaning into my strength. I am strong.  I am also fragile, a piece of glass that withstands strong winds and rain but is easily shattered by a small rock or pebble.  Strength doesn’t always appear stoic.  I’m often on the verge of tears.  

As I walked down the jetway to the airplane, my verge of tears let go and started flowing down my cheeks. It didn’t surprise me, as it’s happened on almost all of the flights I’ve been on since January 4th.  It was, however, the first time I gave it any thought.  Emery loved to travel, and we often traveled together, starting when she was a little girl, making trips to either coast to visit my sisters.  After every flight, I’d ask her to find our way to the baggage claim, and although she couldn’t read yet, she always got us there.  I wanted to give Emery confidence when it came to travel. I was helping her grow her wings and with those wings, I was also setting myself up for difficult goodbyes later.  I missed traveling with Emery.  My tears on that jetway, on all of the jetways, held meaning and weight.

When Emery was a senior in high school, she had enough credits to graduate a semester early and told me she wanted to spend the time traveling…with me. She suggested Peru because I spoke Spanish and she wanted to see Machu Picchu.  I had done well with her wings. 

We volunteered in a poor district of Lima for a month, then were tourists for two weeks.  The dye had been cast.  My girl loved travel.  And now, 17 years after our initial trip to Peru, Emery’s children are experiencing the excitement and wonder of living in a different country, while embracing a new culture and learning Spanish.  Arlo and Muna carry their Mama’s spirit with them. 

I feel Emery when I travel.  It makes me sad and smile at the same time — grateful for the many times we boarded flights together to familiar places to see people we knew,  or to the unknown.  If she wasn’t with me when I traveled to new places, she was always my first text.  

You’d love it here!  It’s amazing, beautiful, exotic, and you have to put it on your list!  We’ll go together! 

And her responses were always a resounding, “YES!”

With the echoes of goodbye hugs that I could still feel several hours later, the sadness spilled over into my car ride home.  The driver, Kevin, whom I had had a few times before, asked me about Costa Rica.  Kevin is a talker who has something to say about everything, and I remembered that the minute I got into his car.  I was polite, but not talkative.  He asked if I was visiting friends in Costa Rica, and I told him, No, my grandchildren.

Before I could add “and my son-in-law, he said,

“Would that be your son and daughter-in-law or daughter and son-in-law’s kids?”

Kevin wasn’t going to give me a break. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go there or not, but the next sentence out of my mouth was,  “My daughter and son-in-law’s children, but my daughter passed away in January from complications from the flu, so just my son-in-law and two grandchildren.”  

There was both anxiety and relief in the telling.  I redirected my attention to the pink sky and the slowly dropping sun across the vast open fields.  The drive from the airport to Boulder is pretty, but it usually goes unnoticed for me as thoughts of what I need to do once home take precedence.   Today, there was only a pink sky from a car window and a driver who liked to talk.

As expected, the car went silent after my comment, but the silence remained a bit longer than I was used to.  Finally, Kevin responded,

 “I’m sorry, but that really got to me.  I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you.  It’s still hard for me to understand.”

There was another long pause, at which point I figured he’d redirect the conversation to how bad the dating scene is in Denver for gays or how much he loves his job, or the weather.  People in Colorado actually talk about the weather as much, if not more, than midwesterners.  But instead, he said,

“Can you tell me about her? Starting with her name?”

“Emery.  And yes, I can.”

Can you tell me about her?  

They were six of the kindest words I’ve heard since January 4th.  And so I did.  And he listened. I told him she was kind, curious, and a lover of herbs and flowers. She was self-taught in flower stamping and dying and made beautiful scarves, printed from the cosmos she grew in her garden.   I told her she was funny and would make a face that was as funny as the words that followed.  I told him my grandson does the same thing. I told him what a good mother she was to Arlo and Muna and that they were her greatest joy in life.  I told him that at age five, she wondered why our new puppy’s doctor was a woman and not a dog. I told him she was my baby and had two older brothers.  I told him I missed her.  And he listened.

Then, with the energy of having just made a realization, he said, “Wait, I remember now! Emery was the one who found your house in Boulder when you were living in another city and told you to buy it.  She walked you through the house on a FaceTime call, and you bought it!  Sight unseen!”

I couldn’t believe he remembered that story, as I had only had him drive me a few times before, and I didn’t remember sharing it.  It seems that Kevin was not only a talker, but a listener.

“You have a good memory, Kevin.”

“No, you are a good storyteller.  That’s why I remember.”

A smile, through my tears.  He passed a Kleenex back to me.

I travel often and have had people pick me up from the airport, taken shared-ride vans home, driven myself a few times, and hired a car. None of the trips were memorable.  This one was.

I was grateful for the darkness that had descended upon the car, allowing me to cocoon in my grief for the rest of the ride home, when Kevin, for the first time, was also quiet. When we got to my house, he hesitated before getting out of the car to get my suitcase.

“Can I ask you for some advice?”

“Of course.”

“One of my best friends from my childhood lost their sister to cancer a few years ago. I was at a rough time in my life, and meant to reach out but didn’t.  I found him on social media and would like to reach out, but is it too late?  Would it be upsetting or comforting?”

“Comforting.  It would be comforting.  One thing I’ve learned about grief is that there are no timelines.”

He didn’t respond, but got out of the car and retrieved my suitcase.

I’ve had moments in this process of grief that feel like time has stopped to allow me to grasp the depth of the moment more fully.  This was one of those moments.  I’m still trying to grasp the enormity of what is usually a routine drive from the airport to my house.  

Before I entered my house, Kevin said,

“I’m going to send him a message tonight.  Thank you.  And thank you for sharing your story.”

I learned today that Kevin, the talker and also the listener, is a kind, genuine soul.  He left me with words I’ll never forget.

Can you tell me about her?

A red coat and a gray vest.

A few years ago, Emery took me to a vintage store in a nearby town that had become one of her favorites. She had been talking about it for months, but finding free time with her busy schedule wasn’t easy. She had purchased several pieces there, including clothing, her dining room chairs and some art. She told me I’d not only love the merchandise but also the store’s unique western decor, as well as the owner, whom she now knew on a first-name basis. She was right on all counts. As soon as I walked in the heavy wooden front door of the store, which sat on a corner and was once a filling station, I felt right at home. The decor in the shop matched my own decor, both the decor I own and the decor I want to own.

Emery immediately spotted a vintage Mexican tourist jacket, insisted it was “me,” and told me I needed to try it on. It was expensive, but Emery told me jackets like that were rare, especially in pristine condition. Given its uniqueness, she thought it was well-priced. Emery has talked me into buying more than one item, both clothing and otherwise, that I was reluctant to purchase because it was too expensive. But she was rarely wrong, and every piece I shared the excitement of the purchase with her has turned out to be a treasure. Swept up in her enthusiasm, I tried the jacket on. The store owner, Susan, told us it had been a rare find and she debated keeping it for herself — words that made me start justifying the price tag in my head, given Susan’s enviable style. I hung it back up and continued to shop, telling myself I needed to think about it, but knowing full well it would be going home with me.

As I made my way around the shop, weaving in and out of furniture, home decor, and clothing, a gray knitted vest that I guessed was from the 1940s caught my eye. Unfortunately, it had caught the eye of another shopper, who picked it up as I was nearing the rack, holding it up to check the size. I moved on, continuing my way around the handful of clothing racks, eventually making a full circle and returning to the gray vest, which had once again been returned to the rack. I took it to the dressing room to try on, and, of course, it fit perfectly and was priced well. Without hesitation, I took the vest to the counter and set it down, knowing it was a sure thing, but I still needed some more thinking time, or persuasion from Emery, on the jacket.

Now, if you’re still reading this and thinking, “Ok, so what?” Hold on. There’s more.

Emery continued with her persuasion, reminding me that it was so me and such a rare find, so I set it down next to the vest to buy them both.


The woman who had held up the vest previously asked,
“Did you put this here? Because I was going to buy it.”


“Yes, I did.” I figured that would clear up her confusion, although at the same time, I was beginning to feel defensive.


“But it’s mine and I am going to buy it,” she responded.


“Yours? But it was on the rack. You returned it.”


“But I was going to go back and get it, so it’s mine.”


Now I was definitely feeling defensive.


“I put it on the counter, which to me indicates that I was going to purchase it,” I said, my pulse now racing.


“But you saw me holding it up.”


“But you returned it.”


The conversation went back and forth, with both of us claiming the vest was ours to purchase, with little movement on either side. Then something shifted. I saw Emery and the store owner watching our back-and-forth and realized that, as Emery’s mom, I wanted to set a good example. Had she not been there, I would have held my ground, and things may have gotten ugly, but I would have gone home with the vest. Instead, I was the bigger person and said, “Ok, the vest is yours.”

I gestured for her to go ahead of me, and she thanked me, made her purchase, and headed for the door. Before leaving, though, she turned around and, with grace and kindness, said, “That was really nice of you, and I appreciate what you just did. Really.” And then she left. She wanted that vest, and maybe even more because I was in the process of buying it, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. I had done the right thing, or so I thought. I had set a good example in front of my daughter and the store owner, who watched the entire drama unfold. Or so I thought. After the woman left the store, leaving only the store owner, Susan, Emery, and me, Emery told me I had done a nice thing for the woman, as she looked like she was suffering. After the woman left the store and only the store owner, Susan, Emery and I remained, Emery told me it was nice what I had done for the woman as she looked like she was suffering. 


“Suffering?” I asked.
“Well, maybe. She looked sad. Maybe she had had a fight with her boyfriend or husband, or maybe she had just lost her job or learned her mom had cancer. She looked sad. And now she has the vest she wanted, and she seemed a little happier when she left.”
My first thought was that Emery saw far deeper into the woman’s emotional state than I had. As much as I liked the vintage vest, I had done the right thing, or so I thought.

“But… I can’t believe you let her buy it, Mom. I mean, it looked so cute on you, and you had it on the counter. Everyone knows that means you’re getting ready to purchase it.”


Had this been a moment of kindness I had demonstrated for Emery’s benefit, or a display of weakness?
 The store owner, Susan, chimed in.
“Yes, that was nice what you did, but clearly it was your vest.”



A few minutes later, another customer came into the store, and the store owner, whom I now also know well enough to call Susan, asked her opinion on the matter.
“Do you think that putting something on the counter by the register means you’re going to buy it?”
The woman agreed wholeheartedly with Susan (and Emery). Then, the store owner filled in the details, explaining how kind I had been by letting the woman have the vest that I had clearly claimed. Now I’m the nice, albeit pushover customer, or so it seemed. Susan said she felt bad and was going to look for similar vests on her upcoming shopping trips, and for some reason, I knew she wasn’t just saying that to placate me.

I was happy with my jacket purchase because I loved it, but I was still struggling to let go of what had happened. I wished I had been more assertive. I wanted the vest.

But there’s more…

When reviewing my credit card statement a few weeks later, I noticed a large charge from a gas station—a charge I hadn’t made. I had recently driven to KC and back and assumed the fraud had happened somewhere in western Kansas while I was getting gas, although the dates didn’t quite align. Having gone through credit card fraud a few times, I knew the drill. I called my credit card company and reported that my card appeared to have been compromised at a gas station. They credited the charge and told me a new card would arrive within a few days. A few hours later, while stopped at a stoplight, it dawned on me what the charge was for. The boutique where I had bought the vintage jacket was located in what had been a filling station, which is why the charge listed the filling station’s name instead of the boutique’s. I knew I was right as the amount was exactly what I had paid for the jacket. I called the credit card company back. First, I wanted to ensure that the merchant had been paid. Then, I asked if the charge could be put back on my card, a request they told me they had never run across before. They told me they couldn’t do that as that account had been closed. “Consider it a gift,” the woman told me. Or maybe karma, I thought.

But there’s more…

A few months later, Emery came over with a gift bag and handed it to me, explaining it was from Susan, who owned the shop where the drama had occurred. Inside was a gray vintage sweater vest, similar to the vest I had given up. She told me Susan wanted me to know it was her gift to me. I was deeply touched that she had remembered and followed through on her promise. I’m usually good with my thank-you’s, but for some reason, my plans to write her a thank-you note were forgotten. I went to the boutique a few times afterwards to thank her in person, but she was never there.

The next time I saw Susan was at Emery’s celebration of life, a day that I’ve forgotten more about than I’ve remembered. I remember her approaching me and hugging me with tears flowing down her cheeks, and the only thing I could think to say to her was, 
“I’m so sorry…I forgot to thank you for the sweater.”

She nodded, and of course, she understood.

October 2

Emery’s first steps, on her first birthday.

Emery knew immediately that it was the birthday cake she wanted when she saw it in the bakery case.  I suggested the cake with the teddy bear on it, because it seemed more appropriate, but it wasn’t what she wanted. She was almost four. She wanted the pink baby bootie cake that would likely be served at a baby shower.  

I was having coffee with my friend, Donna, and her almost four-year-old son, James, when Emery spotted the cake.  I loved her enthusiasm, but told her it was too early to buy the cake, as her birthday wasn’t for a few weeks.  I figured she’d forget about the cake or it would be gone by our next visit. I should have known better. The next time we were in the coffee shop/bakery,  the pastel pink cake was still there, along with Emery’s enthusiasm. The third time we saw the cake, we ordered one. 

“ The teddy bear cake sure is cute… are you sure about the baby bootie cake?” I asked Emery. 

She looked at me as if I hadn’t been listening to her. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t going to be swayed by my suggestions.  A few days later, on her birthday,  Emery blew out four candles on a pastel pink baby bootie cake.

During a time when I’m holding on so tightly to every memory that comes to mind because forgetting feels like losing more of Emery, I’m grateful for the baby bootie cake and not the teddy bear cake, because it was a cake that gave me a story and a memory.

Memories of Emery (and yes, I’ve noted the rhyming aspect and it means even more to me now) hold so much more weight than they used to, and insignificant details loom large to keep me up at night.   Who came to the party at our house when she was six? Or was it seven? And what was the name of the tall girl with long hair who felt bad because she didn’t bring a gift to that party?  The girl whose mom always looked tired and gave the toddler sister small tins of Vienna sausages for a snack. It doesn’t matter, yet it matters so very much.  Did Emery prefer chocolate cake over vanilla cake?  I feel like a part of her is fading away if I can’t remember. Then again, if I could text her, she likely wouldn’t remember either, except the Vienna sausages, which always made us laugh. 

I remember Emery’s first birthday because it was also the day she took her first steps.  Not steps with me seated on the floor with outstretched arms, but rather, steps across the kitchen countertop after she climbed out of her high chair (I no longer buckled her in, third child and all).  I don’t remember her blowing out a candle or me singing to her, but I do remember it was just the two of us in the kitchen.  Charlie was out of town, and the boys were at a friend’s house. I gave her a cupcake, and we had our own little party. Even though there would be a family gathering that weekend, I couldn’t let her actual day go by without some acknowledgement.

I  remember chocolate on her face as she made her way out of the high chair, pulled herself onto the countertop, and took her first steps. I also remember the moment when I grabbed my camera, without taking my eyes off of her, to record the moment. It may not have been wise, but who would have believed me had I not obtained the evidence? I caught a glimpse of the child Emery was becoming…fearless, curious, and determined. 

Age 13. After much persuasion, I caved and said yes to a slumber party for 13, because it has to be 13 girls for my 13th birthday party, Mom!   We converted the basement into one big sleeping area with blow-up beds, sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows.  It was worth every sleepless moment for the many stories that followed.

Age 16.  Emery had a Black and White party with three other friends whose birthdays lined up consecutively on the calendar.  The guests wore black and white.  I had a cake made with all four of the birthday kids’ photographs in icing on the top. Emery thought it was fancy.  I had to agree.

Age 20.  I wasn’t in the country, but I sent my birthday wishes to Emery from the Himalayan Mountains while on my trek in Nepal with my sister, Susan. Susan and I were sitting outside our hut early in the morning in our pajamas, with our morning coffee in the foothills of the Annapurna Range, sending Emery happy birthday wishes in a phone call. Emery thanked me for the call and loved that I was calling her from the other side of the world, then reminded me that her birthday wasn’t until the next day.  I was a day early due to the time change. 

Age 21:

(Excerpt from a letter I gave Emery on her birthday)

Before I left the hospital to give birth to you, your brothers, ages 3 and 4 1/2, told me not to bring home another brother, and if I had a boy, to leave him at the hospital.  They only wanted to be brothers to a little sister!

You brought a balance of feminine energy into a house that was overloaded with testosterone and gave your brothers the gift of growing up with a little sister.  You’ve become my travel buddy, my confidant, my excellent listener, and at times, my memory.  My life is richer, deeper, and more meaningful with you in it.  Oct. 1, 1990, was one of the happiest days of my life, and now, 21 years later, I’m honored to celebrate that magical day with you.

We celebrated Emery’s 21st birthday with a family dinner at The Melting Pot because Emery had always wanted to go there.  Afterwards, she told me it was way too much cheese for anyone to ingest.  I agreed.

Age 26.  I was walking the Camino with Susan on Emery’s birthday.  If it looks like there was a pattern with me being out of town or out of the country, you’re correct.  Late September to early October was a good time for travel as it coincided with the many walking vacations Susan and I took.  I felt terrible celebrating so many of Emery’s birthdays after the fact, but she was always very supportive of my trips.  I wasn’t sure what to buy her for her 26th birthday, as shops were scarce along the Camino, but I came up with an idea while walking.  I made a video with happy birthday wishes from both friends I had met and strangers I approached on the Camino.  The wishes were in Spanish, French, and English, most with Australian accents.  It was one of the best gifts I ever gave her.  She agreed.

Age 30. I was in town for Emery’s 30th, but due to Covid, we weren’t together, so my words were my gift to her.

October 2, 2020

“I slowed down to an almost stop with you, Emery, and it was deliciously wonderful to live life at the pace and the viewpoint of a little girl who twirled her way through life with a smile on her face and a song in her heart.  Your deep-rooted compassion for others, both two-legged and four-legged, touched me deeply when you were a child and still does today.  Thirty years ago, when Dr. Thomas handed you to me, my life felt complete.  I had my girl. 

Hold on to the wonder you found so early in life as you dance your way into a new decade, my darling girl. My heart explodes with the love I have for you: beautiful mother, beautiful wife, beautiful daughter.  You are a gift to the world, and we are all blessed.  

Recently, I was texting a friend about Emery’s birthday in October.  Her daughter died five years ago.

“Do I say celebrate?” I asked her. 

“Yes,” she said, “because we will always celebrate the day our girls were born.”

Celebration is still a difficult word to use for the first birthday that our family will experience without Emery, but I am holding tight to her words… celebrate the day she was born.

After being out of town or country for so many of Emery’s birthdays, I will be where I need to be on October 2nd this year.  I’ll be with her brothers and their families on a beach in southern California.  If I could find a pastel pink baby bootie cake, I would buy it and light the metal sparkler candles I recently found in a basket on one of my kitchen shelves. I have no idea where the candles came from, but ironically, there were two, a five, and a three.  I thought, how odd, then I turned them around—a three and a five.  Thirty-five.  The age I was when I had Emery, the age Emery would have been this year.  

October 2, 2025.  We’re celebrating your birth, my darling girl, and the gift you gave to all of us who loved you.  I found the perfect birthday card for you months before you died, which I set aside because that’s what I do.  It’s in a small stack of cards that are separate from my larger stash, as none of them will ever be sent, but will be reread often by me; a Mother’s Day card, a Father’s Day card, a birthday card for Dad, and one for you.  You are missed beyond measure and so very loved.

257

Today is day 257. 257 days of feeling lost, untethered, disconnected. 257 days of waking up to the same thought. She’s gone. Emery died. She’s never coming back. 257 days of not being able to text her or call her, but mostly text her because she hated talking on the phone. 257 days of a missing that is so deep I feel it in my bones, and they hurt. 257 days of holding my breath when family members don’t immediately return my call or text. My mind goes to the dark side because now I know that terrible and unpredictable things not only can happen, but do. 257 nights of either sleeping twelve hours and still not feeling ready to get up, or not sleeping at all. 257 days of wondering where I went and if I’ll ever be back. 217 days of counting days, starting on day 40, which is a significant day in many religions, but only became significant to me because there was a gathering of some of Emery’s friends on day 40, and I wrote about it in my journal of letters to her. The next day, I wrote 41 next to the date, and I’ve been writing the day ever since.

I remember day 100. I was in Manzanita, Oregon, staying in a cottage on the beach that I had rented the year before. This year was a much different stay. My walks on the beach were tearful and sad, and didn’t hold the wonder and awe they held the previous year. I was marking time until my sons and their families’ arrival for a visit. When I wasn’t walking on the beach, I was sleeping on the blue couch, the one that faced the ocean, and held me during the afternoons when everything else felt too hard. Napping was an easy escape.

That morning, on day 100, I was walking down the beach when my son-in-law, Miles, called me. We exchanged grief stories: What do your days look like? How’s your sleep? How are Arlo and Muna? How are you? Then he told me he needed to talk to me about something, words that had me finding a place to sit down. He was considering a move to Costa Rica with the children…for a year. It was something he and Emery had discussed after their second trip there, and something Emery had also mentioned to me. My first reaction was panic, thinking he couldn’t possibly take Arlo and Muna, or himself, away from their support systems. Or me, which is really where I landed. It would be more loss on top of the loss I was still buried under. He told me he was struggling with living in the house, surrounded by Emery’s things. Nosara, Costa Rica, would be a start fresh, where they would feel Emery’s energy, but not be inundated by her things. It made sense. How could they possibly heal while navigating around the massive crater that the loss of Emery had left? Maneuvering around the hole in their lives while doing the things that Emery had always been a part of — school drop off and pick up, going to the store, friends’ houses for play dates, excursions for ice cream, the park, and all the other places that everyday life took them, but without their anchor.

Arlo and Muna were following in their Dad’s lead…tiptoeing around the places, the feelings and the things that were Emery, while attempting to find as much normalcy as possible. Leaving made sense, and moving to Nosara, even more so, as they had dreamed of living there for a year to raise bilingual and multicultural children. By the time we hung up, I had given Miles my full approval. Then, with the Pacific Ocean in front of me, I wept. It would be another goodbye. Another loss. I started wondering where I belonged. Emery was the one who brought me to Boulder, and now she was gone. And soon, Miles and the children would be gone as well.

I felt a similar disconnect with Boulder that Miles was experiencing. So many places had become emotional triggers. I couldn’t go into shops where Emery and I frequented, or where the owners knew her, or restaurants where we often ate. I have left my home more than I’ve stayed.

Since January 4, 2025, I’ve been on 16 flights, mainly to LA and Portland, Oregon, and have slept in 18 different beds, as well as one night in a chair in the ICU at Foothills Hospital in Boulder. I’ve driven from Boulder to Portland and back, from Boulder to Kansas City and back three times, and from Boulder to LA, where I’m currently staying for the month of September. Boulder has become a difficult place for me to be, but at the same time, it is where so much of Emery was, and I don’t want to lose that.

Recently, I visited her house and walked through her wildflower spiral garden, a spiral I had often walked with Arlo and Muna in the summer. One particular day, while Arlo and Muna were trying to find their “pet” toad, who lived among the flowers, I glanced over and saw Emery standing at the side of the garden, smiling —something she often did while watching me play with Arlo and Muna. I returned her smile, a gesture deep with emotion and understood by both of us: love, for each other and love for Arlo and Muna. Afterwards, I gave her some suggestions on how she could control the weeds the following year, and she smiled and nodded her head, but we both knew she wouldn’t do it. Any of it, because she liked a wild garden, but knew I’d make the suggestions as I did every summer. Being there without her or the children was one of the loneliest moments I’ve felt since she died. It was more confirmation to me that Miles had made the right decision by moving to Costa Rica for the year, even though I missed them dearly.

Over the last 257 days, my writing has shifted to pieces about Emery and grief because I write about what life shows me and what I feel, and that is my current life loop. My routine remains unchanged and I still get up every morning at 7:00, make my coffee, and sit down at my computer to write for at least two hours.

Shortly before the Costa Rica move, Muna came over for a sleepover. While she was carefully taking her things out of the toiletry bag that had once belonged to Emery and organizing them on my bathroom counter (her toothbrush, toothpaste, a plastic unicorn, a tube of lipstick and two of Emery’s hair clips), she spotted my robe hanging next to my bathtub. My grandchildren are curious about things they don’t usually see of mine, like pajamas and robes, as well as what I look like when I brush my teeth, what I read before I go to sleep and if I sleep with a nightlight on. Muna told me my robe was beautiful. I agreed and told her that her Mama had given it to me last Christmas because she thought I needed to look nice when I got up in the morning to write. I’ve worn it every morning since she gave it to me, except when it’s in the laundry, and I love that my morning writing routine came to mind in the shop where she purchased it. Muna liked her Mama’s suggestion that I look nice when I write, and told me, “Well, I don’t drink coffee in the morning, or ever, and I don’t write, except for my name, but I would wear a robe if I had one.” Before I could respond, she added, “Especially if it had dogs on it! Then I would wear it EVERY morning!”

I’ll be going to Costa Rica in October for Muna’s sixth birthday, and there will be a pink robe in my suitcase with dogs and hearts all over it. We will wear our robes together while I drink coffee and she doesn’t. And we will look nice, and Emery would have loved it.

For 257 days, and often without warning, I’ve cried. Sometimes, it hits me with the same fervency as it did at 11:38 am on the morning of January 4th. No one should ever have to relive those feelings of anguish that present themselves, frequently and at unexpected moments…while walking up my stairs to go to bed, or getting into my car after grocery shopping, or on a hiking trail or a neighborhood walk. It usually passes quickly, but leaves a feeling that wants to hang on.

I often return to the memory of telling Emery goodbye, while machines kept her alive in a hospital in Denver, her time on this earth being left in her family’s hands, who told the doctors when to turn the machines off. A tiny part of me thinks there might be a different outcome when I go through that last day in my mind. Much in the same way, I would call my Dad’s phone after he died, thinking maybe, just maybe, he’ll answer. Of course, he never did, but what if he had? Joan Didion called it magical thinking. I call it misplaced hopefulness or not being able to accept reality. But the ending doesn’t change. Miles still gives the doctor a nod, indicating that we’re ready, and she still shuts down the machines. The doctor still gives Emery her final physical exam, and she still pulls out her phone to do what I’ve seen so many times in the movies, yet I still brace myself, knowing what’s next. “Time of death, 11:38 am.” The nurse still writes it down.

The room goes quiet. So quiet I think I can hear every one of our hearts beating, but the one that stopped beating is the one that is the loudest. My heart hovers in the space between where I’m standing and Emery, who is now referred to as a body, is lying. Maybe it’s not sure where it belongs. Maybe it still doesn’t know, 257 days later.

Sedona for the Soul


On Memorial Day, 2025, I slipped on wet grass while playing with my grandchildren and broke my ankle.  Three days later, I drove to Sedona for a week of grief therapy.  I shouldn’t have, as it was my right ankle, but I did it anyway.  I was treated at a nearby urgent care, and when the nurse practitioner told me my ankle was broken and I’d need a boot,  I told her I was driving to Sedona in three days.  She looked up at me with raised brows, and before she could say anything, I added, “For therapy.  My daughter recently died… from unexpected complications from the flu…in two and a half days.”

“The flu? Oh my god… I’m so, so sorry.  I hope you’ll find what you need in Sedona. Oh, and take the boot off when you’re driving.” Before leaving the room, she stopped, looked at me again, and in a gentle voice said, “I really am sorry.  Take care.”  I heard that as permission because it was what I needed to hear.  I knew if I cancelled, it would be a long time before the therapists, chosen specifically for me, would have availability.


I knew that driving to Sedona would not be good for my ankle, but I also knew I needed to put my mental health ahead of my physical health.  Two days later, I got in my car and made the two-day trip to Sedona with my boot riding shotgun, until I made a stop, then I’d put it on. Once at the hotel, I took off my boot and replaced it with ice and elevation, making that my hotel routine. I thought I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t.


I had ten sessions in five days. I was alone in my therapy, not in a group, and the ten sessions were all different — talk therapy, therapy while seated on a large rock next to a river, breath work, equine therapy, massage therapy, and energy work. Most days, I had two sessions, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with a break in between for lunch, except for equine therapy, which was a three-hour session, leaving me too exhausted to do anything else afterwards but sleep. All the therapists had been notified about my injury, and Belle, the horse trainer/therapist, had a chair waiting for me when I arrived. The horses, Penny, Mimi, and Salsa, stood close together with their noses pressed against the wall. I asked Belle what they were doing. I’m not a horse person and didn’t grow up around horses, but their positioning looked odd to me. She said they were working. She had told them about me, and they were waiting. I was struck by the two mares, Mimi and Penny, because I often called my daughter, Emery, Mimi, and one of her favorite dolls was named Penny. It felt like she was right next to me, beside my chair, with our eyes on the horses.
I shared stories about Emery with Belle, most of them through tears.  The horses would react by stomping their feet or moving their heads up and down. 

Belle told me they were responding to my stories and were feeling both my emotional pain and the physical pain of my ankle.  Horses read energy and vibrations, and Belle told me they heard me and could understand me in the same way a person who is deaf hears music.  I felt comforted in their presence.  I don’t understand horses or their ability to co-regulate their nervous system to a person in pain, but by the time I left, my ankle no longer hurt, and I felt a deep sense of calm.  When the session was over, I approached Penny to express my thanks.  I felt Emery’s hand on mine, a hand that also had feared horses, as I stroked her neck, feeling calm and drawn to the massive animal I had feared when I arrived.


Digging into the essence of who you are, without edits, is exhausting work, and I had little energy left at the end of the day. I ate dinner as early as I could, mostly to get it over with so I could go to bed. At that hour, I ate in almost empty restaurants with people I used to say were old, but now I’m their age.
On the recommendation of one of my therapists,  I went to the Airport Mesa Grill.  The restaurant is situated on a vortex, a concentration of the Earth’s energy that many believe promotes spiritual growth and healing. Sedona has become famous for its seven vortexes, the Airport Mesa Grill being one of them. The restaurant’s appeal to me was less about the vortex, although I was curious, and more about being able to sit at the bar and watch small planes taxi across the tarmac.  That, to me, was an energy center I could feel because of my flying history with small airplanes. It became my restaurant of choice, and I returned two more times during my week in Sedona, sitting in the same spot at the bar, the one closest to the window.  I didn’t talk, but became an observer instead, while I watched the planes, the people at the bar, and my thoughts.

My week of therapy in Sedona was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, except deciding to file for divorce twenty years ago. When people asked me when I returned home if the therapy had helped or if I felt better, I had to answer no, but I felt different, and for now, different felt like enough.


My therapists were the ones holding the magnifying glass and the flashlight to my grief while I worked my way through to the depths of my soul, digging through the layers that had been buried by life. They were my guides, but I was the one on the journey, and in the end, after excavating parts of myself I didn’t know existed, with apprehension and a pickaxe, I now know where the diamonds are.  I haven’t uncovered one yet, but I know where they are buried.  It is in the grief of losing my daughter that I have found a quiet that I’ve never felt before.  It’s raw and honest, speaking the truth in a voice that shakes and is barely audible, but I can still hear it.  The pain is excruciating, yet pure and strangely comforting.  One of the therapists told me that he was impressed with my bravery and my willingness to step into the fire and spend time with my grief.  His words surprised me. I told him I lived in the fire because it is in the pain where I’ve found the most profound love, and I will crawl through sprays of brambles of sorrow to reach it, if I have to.


I wanted to be able to come home and, when asked if my work in Sedona helped with my grief and loss, say yes, and I feel so much better, but that’s not what happened. I dug deep into my soul at the edge of a river, next to three horses in a stall, on a cushion in a studio where I did breath work, in therapists’ homes, in a clearing in the woods, and Emery was right there with me.  She came to me in my dreams and told me to lean into the strength I had forgotten I had, but she hadn’t. I felt her presence, her guidance, and her strength.


Before I left Sedona, I went into one of the many aura photo studios in town. Emery had a photo of her aura taken at a fundraiser a few months before she died. It was beautiful, so much so that it was on display at her celebration of life. Her face was surrounded by a gradient of violets and blue, fading to white.  The therapists I showed the picture to all responded with amazement at its beauty, adding that the colors indicated she was a very old soul.  I know little to nothing about auras, but I decided I wanted to see what mine was.  Would it be the beautiful violets and blues like Emery’s? Would being the one who gave birth to her ensure I would have some of those pretty colors in my aura?  I chose a nearby Aura Studio, and was escorted to a back room where a woman got me situated with the equipment, and took the photo. A few seconds later, a doorbell rang.  I asked the woman if she needed to answer the door.  She looked confused and told me they didn’t have a doorbell, and she had no idea where the sound came from.  I couldn’t help but think of Emery, but I didn’t say anything.

My aura colors are not violet or blue, and they are not remotely pretty.  My aura is orange—my least favorite color, but also the color that indicates creativity. 

Without giving it much thought, I drove to a second studio, hoping for a different result.  My second aura picture was the same, also orange, which confirmed the legitimacy of the first one. My daughter-in-law, Brooke, later reminded me that aura photography isn’t a situation where one gets to keep having the photo taken until they get the color they want.  I knew she was right, and I also knew that no one would be surprised by what I had done. I wanted to text both photos to Emery, who would echo Brooke’s words and send a laughing emoji in response. I miss that glimmer of connection.


My time in Sedona gave me the tools to a layer of my soul I didn’t know existed. It also reminded me that I was the one holding the map, and always had been. The girl who had lived in Kansas for most of her life was reminded that she held the power all along. It wasn’t as simple as tapping my ruby red slippers together three times to take me home, but it was an understanding of the journey I’m on and will continue to be on for the rest of my life. I’m the one holding the map and sometimes, the pickaxe.


I returned to Boulder and met with an orthopedic surgeon who told me my X-rays were worse than they were three weeks ago. I wasn’t surprised.  He asked me if I had been wearing the boot, without exception, except to sleep, and if I was still not driving. I told him no, I didn’t wear the boot non-stop as it was uncomfortable, and I had driven… “to Sedona, Arizona and home.” I could have told him why my drive to Sedona was so important, but I didn’t. He said the boot was the wrong height and didn’t fit, and wasn’t surprised that I didn’t want to wear it as it was giving me no support. He put me in the taller boot with strict instructions NOT to drive for the next three weeks, at which time he would see me again. Not even to Arizona, he added.  I followed his instructions. 
I had ignored my ankle and listened to my heart instead, as it was the louder voice. I have no regrets. My now bootless ankle is almost healed, and, thankfully, I won’t need surgery. My heart, on the other hand, is not almost healed, nor will it ever be, but I know where the diamonds are, and I’m not afraid of the pickaxe.

Thanking Penny.

Aging, Revisited

Making a wish was before blowing out the 8 candles…August 30, 1963

August, 2025

I don’t usually write a post in honor of my birthday, but I found this essay while going through some writing files, and it resonated with me. As I approach 70, my feelings haven’t changed much from ten years ago.  Emery planned a surprise birthday party for my 50th, in the house we had moved into shortly after I divorced (which was in the middle of a remodel, and my guests were met with a toilet in my entryway).  She also planned my 60th birthday party with my two sisters and her in Crested Butte, Colorado, and was in the process of planning my 70th birthday with my sons and their families at Lake Tahoe.  The Lake Tahoe part didn’t change as I’m there now with my two sons. It’s a big birthday, a difficult first without Emery, and a new decade, but still, I’m celebrating.  Birthdays are a gift.  Life has shown me that over and over again this past year.  And as I slowly unwrap the gift of my soon-to-be 70th decade, I’m holding onto the wisdom from a time when I thought 30 was old and now 60 in hindsight sounds young(ish).

 

Aging and a New Decade (60)

August 2015

When it comes to decade birthdays, my entrance into my 30s and 60s are the two that have had the most impact.  They both felt like I was entering decades of significant change, with 30 being the decade that felt most like my entrance into adulthood, and 60 the decade of being past middle age and entering an age that no one seems to have a comfortable word for besides retired.  Old, which would be on the other side of the scale from young, feels too harsh and, well, too old.  It also holds the sense of urgency of getting things done that thirty had, but the things have changed from marriage, kids and home ownership to volunteer work across the world, walks that are weeks long, not hours long and the bravest of all, letting my gray roots go and changing the hair color on my drivers license to gray (because there is not the more suitable option of silver). 

As I approach 60, I have more of an interest in the person who is struggling with their phone, misunderstands what you’ve said due to hearing loss, often resulting in humor, or is asking about senior discounts while at a 4:00 happy hour, then listing other places that have that if told no.  I watch them with discomfort and curiosity, assuming they must be a lot older than me. But in the back of my mind, I know that someday it will be me, or maybe it already is, and I don’t know it.  

Recently, while at a concert in the park in Frisco, Colorado, I was standing behind an older couple who I’m guessing were at least a decade older than me. The man, armed with the latest iPhone,  was trying to video the band, but was getting frustrated because he kept videoing himself, even though he was holding the phone out in front of him and pointed directly towards the band.  He was in selfie mode, but didn’t realize it. I was close enough to see the videos and the mistake he continued to make, but far enough away that I couldn’t hear the comments he was making to his wife — the wife who had her fingers in her ears.  I guess the music was too loud for her.  I doubt I would have given the whole scenario a second look a few years ago, but now, on the heels of 60, I was having a hard time looking away.  There was so much age-related vulnerability coming into play that I felt compelled to settle into the scene long enough to decide on an appropriate emotion… sadness, frustration, or depression. Although I know how to reverse the camera on my iPhone, I’ve done plenty of things that have had all of my kids rolling their eyes and asking me to hand the phone over so they can “sort me out.”  Technology is moving at a much faster pace than our aging, and given that most technology is only a few decades old for so many of us, being behind the technological eight ball is valid and something we hold in solidarity with those in our same age group. Thankfully, the attitude of caring what others think diminishes a bit, but also thankfully, not entirely.   A little bit of vulnerability keeps us humble, but we traverse a fine line between pride and embarrassment when we expose that side of ourselves.

A few weeks later, while I was still in Colorado and hiking the Hanging Lake trail,  a hike that is so beautiful it’s difficult for me to contain my enthusiasm, I met a lovely couple. We had passed each other enough times on the switchbacks that it felt like it was time to say something. I hate small talk, but I’m good at it.  Each time we passed, my eyes were drawn to her beautiful, long, silver hair. So,  after we stopped and exchanged pleasantries about the views and our joy with being on the hike, I had to mention her hair.  With great enthusiasm, I took off my ball cap with a nod to our sisterhood of silver hair and said,

“Your hair is so amazing….  I’m trying to do the same thing.”

Then I took off my ball cap, turned around to give her a view of the back, to show her it was still a work in progress, as at least eight inches of my hair were still brown.  

Her response had nothing to do with my hair or our silver hair connection; instead, she told me how excited she was to finally be on the hike she had heard so much about.  We met again a few switchbacks later, and I’m not sure if it was the lighting or my exhaustion, but her hair was not silver.  She was blonde.  There was not one strand of silver in that blonde hair of hers.  I cringed at what I had done moments earlier, removing my hat to reveal my sweaty,  two-toned, not at all attractive, hat hair.  I wanted to quietly back down the mountain, never to see them again, but instead began to talk incessantly to cover up my blunder, as a correction.  She was ten years younger than me (I’m guessing, but my guessing is no longer reliable), but at that moment, I felt like I was old enough to be her mother.

I was the man trying to videotape the band, but was videotaping himself instead. They were from New Jersey.  They drove.  It took them two very long days. They spent the first night in Junction City.  She has a fear of heights. They might be married.  They want to move to Colorado.  She has blonde hair, not silver.  Lesson learned.   Hold your enthusiasm until you’re sure you know what you’re talking about, and then wait a few more seconds,  just to be safe.  If you mess up and don’t want to come clean, then talk.  Talk a lot. Five more minutes and we would have been Facebook friends,  another ten and we would have had dinner.

I like to sum up each decade in a few words as to its impact on me. I’m curious as to the event that will mark my 60s.  My 20s were my decade of exploration, marked by mistakes and fearlessness as I unknowingly began to forge my life path.  My 30s were a significant step into adulthood, which at the time meant finishing college (finally), getting married, and having my first child, then my second, and at 35, my third. My decade of change… or so I thought.

My 40s were my decade of letting go of the lead and, by default, letting my children lead.  Their friends’ parents became my friends, and their schedules became my schedules. I loved watching them grow while finding myself in all of them.  Also, with 40 came the significant passage of time and age, as my hair started turning gray, and I did what most of my friends did and made regular appointments to cover it up.

My 50s were another decade of change, much like my 30s.  I got divorced after 20 years of marriage, days before my 50th birthday, and set out on an unknown path,  which had far more forging and exploring than I had anticipated.  I made a lot of mistakes, worried too much, and seemed to learn every lesson the hard way, with the predictable pattern of reactionary hysteria, followed by a slow recovery, and ending with a lot of talking on the phone.  Case in point, the explosion of my water heater a mere two weeks after moving into my new house and my new life.  I’m still thankful that all of my photos, which weren’t in albums, were in plastic boxes.  Nothing was lost, and a whole lot was gained.  That lesson began with me lying in a heap at the bottom of the basement steps, my head in my hands, my strength and courage in another room.  When sump pumps, water heaters, or garage door openers go on the blink, I remember that girl who sobbed in a panic on the bottom step, not knowing who to call or where to turn.  She grew a lot that night.  Life felt unexpectedly hard, but was softened by several of Emery’s friends, armed with dry vacs and encouragement. In the end, I became a lot stronger and added a good plumber to my phone book.

With each decade comes gratitude;  the 6th brings a bit more than the 5th and more than the 4th or 3rd, because that’s how life works.  It’s constantly teaching us if you’re brave enough to pay attention.  Right now, at almost 60 years old, I’m comfortably seated on my cushion of gratitude while I continue to adjust my sails to catch the best wind to carry me forward. It’s a good place to be, and I can’t complain about the view.

August, 2025

Reading these words, almost ten years later, comforts me and brings me to my knees in sadness at what would happen at the end of my 6th decade that I could even begin to imagine. I also didn’t know that it would be the decade of tremendous joy marked by the addition of Katie as my daughter-in-law, five grandchildren, and my move to Boulder.  It would also be my decade that brought a deeper exploration of my writing with workshops all over the world that connected me to people I now consider friends and volunteer travel to several countries that not only helped me discover new cultures, but myself in the process. Sadly, the decade would end with my deepest despair, when in the space of four months, I’d be by both my Dad’s and my daughter’s bedside when they passed.

Aging is truly a privilege. Emery only had 34 years and died a year younger than I was when I gave birth to her. I hold onto that with every new wrinkle, ache, and pain. I don’t want to make predictions about my upcoming decade, but instead, will hold onto every thread of gratitude and love I can find because in the end, that’s all we have, and all that matters.

The Locket

It’s not just a locket that I wear around my neck. It’s a thread of history that connects four lives, two who are no longer living and one with whom I’ve lost touch.  It is the first thing I put on in the morning and the last thing I take off at night.  I wear it around my neck in the same way I wear the silver bangle on my right wrist that was given to me when my grandmother died.  She wore an armful of bangles, all of them divided between my mom, aunt, sisters, and cousins when she died.  I’ve worn it on my wrist ever since.  I was 16. The locket, which moved back and forth from Emery’s closet to mine after she initially discovered it, returned to my neck after she died.  Just like the silver bangle, whose etchings of leaves and vines are almost smooth now after 54 years of wear,  the locket has become a part of me.

The locket was a baby gift that was given to me by a dear friend when Emery was born.  Mothers who give baby gifts to the mother and not the baby understand, and mothers who receive the gift for themselves and not their baby are grateful and appreciative.  I met Donna, the thoughtful giver of the gift, at an exercise class when our firstborns were babies. We were both working on getting rid of the baby fat, which would be harder than we realized, as not long into our weekly exercise classes and friendship, we both discovered that we were pregnant with our second, due within weeks of each other.   We became fast friends who needed each other’s help and support.  

Parenting can be a lonely endeavor, and when the other person in the room, the one you’re retelling the story to, or seeking advice from, is two feet tall and not yet walking, adult company is a treasure.  Donna and I would meet almost daily, entertaining our babies, hers a girl, mine a boy, while sharing notes on our pregnancies.  Our second children, both boys, were born within weeks of each other.  Donna was always my first call in the morning, as we’d make our plans for the day, deciding whose house we’d entertain our toddlers and babies in, eventually graduating to parks, playgrounds, and unique restaurants with quirky themes. We had a lot of energy and optimism and knew that the days with crying babies and rambunctious toddlers were easier when shared.

Too soon after our second babies were born, Donna’s family was transferred back to London, where they had moved from. I was devastated, but we stayed in touch as best we could. Phone calls were expensive and seldom made due to the cost, except in cases of urgent news, such as a pregnancy.  Our calls to each other about our pregnancies with our third child came weeks apart, with mine being first.

When our third babies were just over a year old, hers a boy, mine a girl (Emery), Donna and her family were transferred back to the Kansas City area, and our friendship picked up where it left off.  Donna shared in my joy of having a daughter, and in celebration of Emery’s birth, she gifted me a locket that she had found in an antique store in London.  I loved the idea of a locket and remember as a child being fascinated by the necklaces that held the secret of tiny photos tucked inside.  I found pictures of Emery and me, both at a year old, and tucked them into the small ovals and wore it daily.  

Donna’s third, James, and Emery became playmates who shared many coffee dates with Donna and me while our older children were in preschool. They played well together.  Life was good, and I had my dear friend back, at least for a while. 

When Emery was in preschool, Donna moved again, this time to Canada.  It was another difficult goodbye for me, and our communication waned as our youngest children started school and life moved on.  Phone calls were expensive, and there never seemed to be enough time to finish a thought, let alone a letter, but I thought of Donna and her three children often.

When James was 17, Donna called me with the very unexpected news that James had passed away unexpectedly from rare complications from the flu.  I was devastated and couldn’t imagine the pain she was in.  Emery and I spent hours culling through photos of her and James, while recalling the many stories and memories shared. There were many photos, as I almost always had a camera around my neck for the “just in case” moments.  Donna and I had a lengthy conversation on the phone, but I was at a loss for words.  What do you say to a mother whose child has died?  I wrote her letters. I sent her photos, but nothing felt significant in the acknowledgment of the weight she was carrying.

Emery discovered the locket in my jewelry box and started wearing it, hoping that because of proximity, it would eventually become hers.  This was a trait she came by honestly. I had done the same thing with a ring of my mom’s that I took out of her jewelry box and started wearing because I liked it.  Eventually, she gave me the ring, much to the dismay of my sisters, who were more honest than I was in their approach to obtaining items they liked. 

Emery wore the locket a lot when she was pregnant with Arlo, her first child. She tole me that the sentimentality that came with her soon-to-be role as a mom made the locket feel more significant to her.  After Arlo was born, I made it official and told her the locket was hers. No more borrowing and no more on loan. It was my gift to her, mother to mother. I loved seeing that bit of history around her neck.  

Shortly after Emery died, Miles told me he wanted the locket to go back to its original owner,  back to where it had started.  His gesture touched me deeply, as we both knew how important it was to Emery and how hard it must have been for him to give it up so soon after she died.  I was driving back to Kansas City the following day, and I knew that wearing it would feel like a talisman around my neck, a protector when I needed all the protection I could get. After he gave it to me, I waited until I was in my car to open it up.  I assumed Emery would have changed out our photos for a photo of Arlo and Muna, but when I opened it, I cried.  There in the little ovals of the locket were the black and white photo of me and the color photo of Emery; two little girls, a generation apart.

Every piece of jewelry I wear has a story and a history behind it, most that I’ve worn for decades.  I wear history on my body that has meaning to me.  The locket is on a long chain and falls below the necklace I’ve worn for over 13 years, which I started wearing when I began solo hiking in Colorado.  The words Protect this Woman are imprinted around a small silver disc with a piece of turquoise in the center.  Superstition, habit, or simply my love of the necklace has kept it around my neck.  It now shares its space with the locket — a carrier of photos, a mother and a daughter, along with the memory of a relationship that came out of our roles as mothers and developed into a dear friendship of love and the unexpected connection of loss.

Almost every time I see my granddaughter, Muna, she asks me, “Can I see the little girls in the necklace?” And so I open the locket, and she gives me the same response she gave me the last time I opened it for her. “You are the girl with the curly hair,  and the other girl is Mama.”  Someday, I want to tell her, but don’t, you will wear it around your neck. You will open it to share the tiny photos that are inside.  You’ll share it with your family or friends, or maybe a random stranger seated next to you who is curious. If it feels right, you’ll tell them who the girls are, then will quietly tuck the locket into your shirt, where it will lie next to your heart; next to your memories and the many stories that have been told to you about the two little girls, one your Mama and one your Laudie, and the strong connection of love between the three of you.