Mother’s Day, Again. 2026

Mother’s Day, 1992

Santa Barbara, March, 2023

Mother’s Day. My second without Emery. The essays of memories of Pop-Tarts and a half-filled glass of juice, being carried by three young children on makeshift trays to my bed, feel like a lifetime ago. My words have changed. I have changed. The holiday has become a reminder of what I have lost, what I long for, and what I’ll never have again. Memories of sticky hands and excited children pushing their way to my bedside to be the first to wish me a happy Mother’s Day have been set aside. For now. Maybe forever. I don’t know.

When Emery died, Thomas and Grant not only lost their sister, but they also lost a big part of their mom. That breaks my heart for them and for me. I wasn’t able to save my daughter, and I wasn’t able to support my sons when they needed me the most. Instead, our roles reversed, and my sons were the ones who held me up, comforted me, and took care of me. I became their mother who needed mothering, and they stepped into the role with love and grace.

Sunday, May 3rd, was International Bereaved Mothers’ Day, a day dedicated to Mothers who carry the profound loss of a child. I didn’t know there was such a day, but my social media page told me, since they’re filled with grief due to my changed algorithm. A day to recognize bereaved mothers gives me both comfort in its existence and heartbreak that there are mothers who find themselves a part of the group being acknowledged. Myself, sadly included. I did not acknowledge the holiday, nor did I share it with anyone, and I did not do anything I don’t do every day, holiday or not. Remember. Cry. Grieve. I also learned, ironically on Bereaved Mother’s Day, that the word, viloma, is a Sanskrit term meaning against the natural order. It is also a word used to describe a parent whose child has died.


Against the natural order…words that hold their weight.

On the heels of Mother’s Day, my mind goes to my last Mother’s Day with Emery in 2024, when we spent the day planting flowers in the newly tilled gardens in her front yard. Her preference was a wild, tangled, over-planted garden, like an English garden, and mine was a more orderly one with plenty of room for each plant to eventually grow into its space, like a French garden. Her family no longer lives in that house, having moved to Costa Rica last August, and the house will soon be sold. A different family will live there someday, and I hope they will wander the gardens with appreciation for the flowers Emery and I so lovingly planted. I wonder if they will think about the people who planted them. The plantings will be in the third year of their growth cycle, the “leap” year, and will show that one area was planted too close together and will need to be thinned, and the other, just right. Will they notice that? I wonder if they like iris? Especially the purple bearded ones. I hope so. Not being able to walk through the gardens in memory when the house is sold will be another ending – the loss of a space that has given me comfort and offers a closeness to Emery amongst the flowers. I’ve gone over to that house multiple times since Emery died to find comfort. To find Emery, who should be walking out to my car with Arlo and Muna tagging behind. Like every other time, no one meets my car. Wanda, my grief, sits shotgun, while I wait, even though I know that no one will come out of the house.

Mother’s Day feels less about my role as a mother this year and more about the children I mothered. I am the mother of three children, two of them living. Those are still difficult words to say. Often, when making small talk with someone I will never see again, I say “three” when asked about my children. Three, without qualifiers. It’s easier and spares the questioner a difficult story.

Over the past 16 months, I’ve been mothered by my two sons and two daughters-in-law far more than I’ve mothered them. All four have comforted me, listened to me, and cried with me. They were by my side continually in the early days, not wanting to leave me alone, and even though they are on the West Coast and I’m in Colorado, they are still by my side emotionally.

Several weeks after Emery’s death, I sent Thomas and Grant a book with daily affirmations related to grief. A friend sent me the book after Emery died, and it continues to give me comfort. When I took the books into the Pak Mail, the lights began to flutter, although the TV behind the counter remained on. This continued until the books were packaged and put into the bin for mailing. The woman behind the counter told me she had never seen anything like that before and had no idea what was going on. I didn’t tell her, but I knew. Once I was out of the office, I quietly thanked Emery and told her, Yes, I will take care of your brothers, and they are taking care of me.

From the letter I included with the books:

Dear Thomas and Grant,

In all my profound grief of losing Emery, I’ve not forgotten that you also lost your sister, and that hurts my heart deeply. We will forever be on this path, laid with stones of grief, trying to find our way. Some days, we will proceed with familiarity and ease, while others will feel more like traversing an icy path with steep precipices and limited visibility. We didn’t choose this path; we’ve been forced to navigate with tired bodies and broken hearts, yet there are no two souls in the world I’d rather be traveling with than you two. You are my strength, my comfort, and my light in what feels like a very dark cave I’m living in now. I hope that someday, the pain will become more familiar and maybe more comfortable, not because we have become used to its presence but because the edges of sadness will be softened by memories, photos, music, words, and a spiral of sunflowers with their oversized heads looking towards the sun, because Emery loved sunflowers. We can no longer experience her in the physical realm, so we will continue searching for her in the things she loved.

Thomas and Grant, you are my north star. That north star led us to the rental house we shared for 3 weeks after Emery died, where our non-Jewish family sat shiva for 21 days. We were together, and together became our home.

As your mom, I vividly remember two little boys who greeted me at the door, anxious to welcome their new baby sister, and your excitement when Thomas asked me if Emery could stay with us forever, and I said yes. Our forever just wasn’t long enough. As your mom, who could fix most hurts when you were young, I wasn’t able to make it better this time, because there is no better when the worst thing we could have imagined happened, and in the span of four very short and very long days.

Thank you for taking care of me. For listening to me, crying with me, sitting with me, and helping me to a couch where I curled into the fetal position after we heard that Emery’s brain was no longer functioning. You were there for me during the most difficult days of my life, a touchstone in my memories that I continually lean into for comfort. A hole was ripped into the weave of our family on January 4th, 2025, that changed the very essence of who we are today and who we are becoming. As horrific as it was to experience such a profound loss, it has become our teacher as we learn to go more slowly, be softer, and always lead with kindness. We learned that grief is the shadow that follows quietly behind love, and one never exists without the other.

As C.S. Lewis so eloquently wrote, and the words I quoted so often as we waited with hope and prayers in the hospital waiting room, “The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before. That’s the deal.”

It feels like this Mother’s Day, our second without Emery, belongs to you, Thomas and Grant, for mothering your mother when she couldn’t do it herself. Thank you, again and again, for holding my hand while we navigate this capricious path with hearts that are both full and broken. As your mom, who would do anything to spare you from pain, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you this time.

I love you dearly. Forever and for always, and I’m honored to be the one you call Mom.

April 30th

Emery and Arlo Thomas and Arlo

I knew long before she told me. I was visiting my sister in Massachusetts when I had the dream. The next morning over coffee, I told her that Emery was pregnant.

“Did she call you? I didn’t hear you talking on the phone.”
“No. I dreamt it.”
“Well, then you don’t really know she’s pregnant.”
“No, I do. I’m 100% sure.”
“Ok. Well, let me know when Emery tells you.”

The dream stayed with me long after I woke up. Emery and I were somewhere with a lot of people, maybe a party, and she pulled me aside and whispered in my ear, “I’m pregnant, Mom. Your baby is going to have a baby.”

I woke up knowing she was pregnant, but would have to wait for her to tell me.

When I returned to Kansas City, I went to dinner with a dear friend, and while seated on the patio of a tapas restaurant, she told me her daughter was pregnant. I told her Emery was also pregnant, and before any other details were shared, we clinked our glasses, hugged, and made the joyous screeches girls make when excited.
“When is she due?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t told me.”
“When did she tell you she was pregnant?”
“Well, she hasn’t. But I know she is. I dreamt it.”
There was a long pregnant pause, pun intended.
“Well, then it’s kind of a ‘pretend pregnancy’…I mean, it was a dream…”
“It was real. I’ll let you know when I have a date.”

I knew it all sounded strange, my certainty coming from a dream, but I knew in my soul of souls that Emery was pregnant, and she wasn’t going to tell me until she could do it in person. The following week, she was flying into Kansas City for an event. She lived in Fort Collins, Colorado, and I was in Kansas City, so her trips home and the airport pickups were always special to me, this one even more so.

As soon as she came through the gate, Emery rushed over to me and said, “Mom….” The word Mom was said with two syllables and a rising intonation, her way of indicating she was about to say something important to me. Before she could go any further, I looked at her and said, “I know.” She shook her head, made an exaggerated exhale, and said, “I should have known. Of course, you already know.”

“But you can still tell me.” She smiled and said, “Mom, guess what? I’m pregnant!”
It was so much better hearing her tell me in person than in my dream.
“How did you know?”
“I dreamt it.”
“Of course you did. I never can have a secret with you.”

And that is how I learned of my daughter’s pregnancy with my first grandchild.

Arlo John Golson was born at 10:51 pm on April 30th, 2017. The first thing I said to Emery was how special it was that Arlo was born on his Uncle Thomas’s birthday. She looked at me and said, “Yes, but Mom…we both had our first babies on the same day, and they were boys.” Although we were both saying the same thing, the way she saw the date had much deeper meaning to me. My third child, my only girl, and I had our first babies on the same day… April 30, and they were both boys. It felt magical. All of it. From the way I found out about the pregnancy in a dream to the date we both shared as our first.

This year, on April 30th, Arlo will be 9, and Thomas will be 40. It will be another difficult date in the long line-up, and I’m learning that it doesn’t get easier because the year of firsts is over. This will be Arlo’s second year without his Mama. Emery won’t be with him to celebrate his birthday or her brother’s entrance into a new decade. Maybe she would have come to Portland for Thomas’s birthday, bringing Arlo with her, and the two would celebrate together. Maybe.

I pulled the following words from a Mother’s Day essay I wrote shortly after Arlo was born. I’ve rewritten these words often, and although I could rearrange them and write something new, nine years later, they still convey what I’m feeling today, so I’ll use them once again.

I can tell you a whole lot of things that will likely happen to you as a new mom, because they are somewhat universal, but you will come up with your own list.  Tears will flow, for no reason, and you will have a tough time holding them in.  That tear valve opens shortly after you give birth, and I’m sorry to say, sweetheart, but it will never close again. That’s OK, because in its opening, you can feel life and love more deeply than you ever imagined, and that is worth every tear.  You will wake up more often than the baby during your first several days at home, and will check to make sure he is still breathing, and you will feel relief when you feel his warm, gentle breath on your hand. You will feel like a part of you is missing if he is not tucked securely in your arms, and that, my dear new mama/daughter, is exactly what being a mom feels like.   Whether your baby is still nestled in your arms or 857 miles away, you will always remember the feeling of when you first held him, how whole and complete and absolutely perfect that moment was.  

My son, Thomas, is 40 today. Emery’s son, Arlo, is 9 today. There will be a hole, a missing, a longing, in both of their celebrations.

Happy birthday, Thomas. Happy birthday, Arlo. I love you dearly.

Shared Grief

I couldn’t look at the faces in the Zoom boxes on my computer when it was my turn to share my story. Instead, I focused on a photo of Emery and me on a hike. I also couldn’t get through my story without tears, but I didn’t try. The tears came slowly and crescendoed into sobs as I shared my grief story with the group. I was not alone.

I’ve opened my computer many times since 2020 to join a Zoom class, usually for a writing workshop, but this time was different. This time, my screen wasn’t filled with boxes of writers, with pens poised to respond to writing prompts, ready (or not ready) to share their words. Instead, there were eight boxes with faces I recognized. Not because I knew them, because I didn’t, but because of the emotions their faces held. We are here because of our grief, the thread that connects us.

The eyes in the squares on my computer looked tired. Like mine. Pretenses and hiding behind masks have been replaced with raw emotions and vulnerability. It was my first day of a grief group on Zoom, facilitated by a therapist I’ve been seeing in Boulder. I was nervous, and while waiting to begin, I began to question my decision to sign up for this group, wondering if it was too late to withdraw, while gathering the words I would tell the therapist as to why I wouldn’t be joining them. This is a predictable response for me when something scares me. Although I’ve done this countless times, writing the script in my head as to why I have to quit, I rarely follow through with my quitting plans. This group was no different. Maybe the process of going through the steps of almost quitting is where I find my courage to stay. It’s just one of my steps.

I had pen and paper next to me to take notes, as well as a box of Kleenex, a small photo of Emery and me, a heart-shaped rock, and a rose quartz bracelet that was given to me shortly after Emery died. Talismans that felt necessary. Their presence felt comforting.

I’m not sure how the other women found this group, as most of them don’t live in Boulder or even in Colorado. I found it through my grief therapist, who I found through a friend who knew a friend who had heard of her. A very circuitous route, but somehow, someway, I have found the people I need to connect with.

There are eight people in my group, including the therapist. I felt a connection to these women, all strangers, and there was an ease in telling my story because I knew they understood in a way that others couldn’t. Our shared experiences of grief have brought us together.

As I looked at the faces on my computer screen, my son, Grant’s words echoed in my mind. “We have no idea what others carry.” Those words were punctuated with the stories I heard that morning. A woman whose husband had died two months earlier. A woman whose fertility journey of 13 years had ended with the birth of a dead baby. A woman who was grieving the loss of her mother, who had died a few years earlier. The story that hit me the hardest was a mother whose 6-year-old son was hit by a car and killed when he ran into the street. There were a lot of tears in the telling of the stories, and just as many shed by the listeners. We are connected by the common thread that none of us wanted. Not our love of travel, hiking, reading, or any other life hobby, but rather, our grief.

There is so much pain and sadness on my computer screen and I found myself leaning in towards my computer screen, as if it were bringing me physically closer to the person talking. I don’t know any of the people in the group but want to hug them all because they know. They know.

I couldn’t help but visualize Wanda in one of the boxes, as it only seemed right that she would be included in my grief group. The top of the prism on her Pink Floyd tee shirt would be visible in her square on the computer, and I’m guessing she would be the one that the facilitator would have to remind to turn off her mic, because if it wasn’t her smoker’s cough, it would be the crackle of cellophane as she unwrapped candy. Wanda is not in my Zoom grief group, but she’s seated next to me. I felt her presence as I shared my story with the group, a story she has heard countless times but offers comfort with each retelling, as if I were telling it for the first time.

I will spend two hours, every Tuesday, with this group, for the next six months. I know it won’t be a cure or what will make me whole again, but the community of shared experiences will be my soft spot to land, and right now, that feels good. Comfort in the community of shared experiences, two hours, once a week, for six months.

Toilet repairs and art therapy.

My red-dressed lady, curious about the red-dressed lady I painted. Soul sisters, united.

We were close to the door, and I had my credit card in my hand. Then Buzz, the plumber, set down his pen and invoice pad on an end table and told me he really liked my art collection and wanted to know more. Buzz was recommended to me, and this was his first time in my house. He had repaired my running toilet, but didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.

I thanked him, then asked if he’d prefer Venmo, a credit card, or a check if that were easier. He didn’t take the bait. Instead, he asked how long I had been collecting art and if I had spent time in Santa Fe.

I moved away from the door and back into the room. I was intrigued by his comment about my art collection. It was the second time someone had commented on my being an art collector, and the second time the comment struck me. I don’t know why, as I have collected art for the past 25 or so years, mostly from my travels, and am lucky to have the wall space in my house to showcase my collection. Still, I never thought of myself as a collector because it sounded too pretentious. I also collect books that line floor-to-ceiling shelves of a wall in my front room, which I’ve never called a library for the same reason.

I told Buzz that yes, I had been to Santa Fe many times, and we used to vacation there during spring break when my children were young, and they had all learned to ski there. I added that it was probably where my art-buying began. I should have left it at a yes, full stop, and focused on the task at hand… paying the bill. Instead, my comment opened the door to conversation. Buzz wasn’t picking up his invoice pad any time soon. He got comfortable.

He told me there was one particular painting he liked. It was in my living room, at the opposite end from where we were standing in my shotgun house. I was not going to get the fast exit I wanted. Instead, I followed Buzz to the back wall of my living room, where he stood in front of a large painting of a small house, with a big sky and storm clouds above it. I bought it shortly after moving to Boulder because it reminded me of my drives across western Kansas. He was looking at the painting as no one else had, except me, while in the gallery contemplating the purchase.


“This painting makes me happy. Beautiful art like this makes me happy. I mean, come on… that sky! You can almost feel the wind, can’t you?”

I looked at the painting, I mean, really looked at it, for the first time since I stood in front of it at the gallery. He was right. You could almost feel the wind.

I’ve had many people compliment me on the art in my house, but nothing like this. Next to the painting were four photographs I had taken in Peru and Nepal — close-ups of faces that intrigued me. He asked me where they were taken and why those people? One was of a young, Nepalese girl, her hands in a prayer, and the other three were elderly women from the center where I volunteered in Perú.

“It was the stories they weren’t telling. Their experiences, without words,” I told him.

He nodded and said he understood. He said photography was his first love, but plumbing paid the bills, so of course, he understood. When he was finished giving his opinions on the rest of the art in the room, we started walking back to where we started. I assumed we were wrapping things up, but he stopped in my kitchen and commented on two other photographs I had taken.
“You see things deeper than most people, or differently.”


I wasn’t sure what he meant. He explained.

“I can see that about you because, as a photographer, I don’t photograph what is present, but what isn’t. You do the same, both in the art you’ve chosen and in your photography. I had never heard that before. I went from wanting him to leave to thinking I should put the kettle on.

We returned to the front room, and he shared more stories about his photography and his art collection, which, due to space limitations, he had started selling. He told me about specific artists whose work he had purchased on Canyon Road in Santa Fe. Clearly, he was a serious collector. I was just someone who knew what she liked but couldn’t remember the artists’ names who graced my walls.

He took out his invoice pad and started writing again, then stopped, set it down again, and asked me about the small sculpture of the woman in the red dress that sat on a table in my front room. I’ve heard many strong opinions about my red-dressed woman, including from my realtor in Kansas City, who insisted I put it away before she showed my house to prospective buyers. She found it creepy. Emery also found it creepy, but her daughter, Muna, loved her. To each their own. He looked at her, without voicing his opinion (surprising), then looked into my nearby office and saw my painting of a woman in a red dress with three children. I told him I had taken several painting classes in the time leading up to my divorce and that I called that painting my divorce painting. The red-dressed sculpture was one I bought after my divorce. I shared her history with him.

“I saw the sculpture at Jazz Fest in New Orleans and made my way to the artist’s booth every one of the three days I was there to look at her. On my last day, I returned to the booth, picked up a smaller, less expensive figure of a girl in a white dress, and told the artist I wanted to purchase it. She was confused because it was the red-dressed girl whom I had become obsessed with. We went back and forth, and I finally told her the truth. The red-dressed girl was more than I wanted to pay, so I was compromising.The artist told me she wouldn’t sell me the white-dressed woman because it was not the one I wanted. She ended up reducing the price so I could buy the one I wanted. It still felt like too much, but given the lengths the artist was willing to go, I had to say yes. When I got home, I put her up on my mantle. The divorce painting was on the wall next to the fireplace. When I saw the two side by side, I knew why I had been so drawn to her. They were soul sisters, separated by space and medium. ”

Buzz liked the story and told me once again that art made him happy, and his saying that, while standing in front of my art, made me happy.

Fixing my toilets took less than an hour, but the art discussion that followed was almost as long, and I was glad for it. He handed me the bill, I gave him my credit card and he wrote down the numbers because he didn’t have a card reader, and then he was gone. The conversation about art, however, was not, and would continue the next day, albeit with his wife. She called me because my credit card had not gone through, and before saying anything else, told me Buzz really enjoyed my art while in my house. She also noted that her art-loving, photo-taking plumber husband is dyslexic and struggles to write numbers correctly, especially when he’s in the throes of an art discussion. She read the number he had written down over the phone, and I corrected her on the transposed digits.

After my Dad died last year, my cousin told me to look for sparkles every day. She told me again after Emery died, and this time, I was more mindful of her words. Sometimes the sparkle is so well disguised that you’re trying to rush it out of your house so you can get on with your life, until you realize that the detours and the pauses are life. A broken toilet and an artist and critic disguised as a plumber were my unexpected sparkle, which ran deeper than the relief of a functioning toilet.

Now, when I look at my painting of the small house and the big sky with storm clouds hanging over it, I recall what Buzz told me.

“Art really makes me happy.”

It does me too, Buzz. I just forgot.

Costa Rica, Spring 2026

The teacher said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand.

“Muna, I didn’t understand what she said.” Muna nodded her head in agreement. “Oh, I didn’t either, Laudie.” “Well, should we find out?” I asked. “No, we’ll figure it out.” And we did, mostly by watching the other children. The language barrier I had anticipated with my grandchildren’s move to Costa Rica didn’t seem to be a barrier at all.

It was October, 2025, Muna’s birthday month, and I was in Costa Rica visiting because that is where Emery’s children now live with their dad, Miles. It’s been a difficult adjustment to make, from driving 10 minutes to their house to a day’s journey that requires my passport, but they are happy and have adjusted well, and that is all that matters to me. It is all that Emery would want. That, I know.

I spent the morning of Muna’s birthday in her kindergarten classroom with her and got to be a part of her birthday celebration with her classmates. Both of my grandchildren’s classes are conducted entirely in Spanish, but their teachers also speak English and will translate, but only if necessary. I worried about the Spanish. They didn’t. Muna told me she knew the word “butterfly” in Spanish. She felt confident. You’ve got to start somewhere.

Later that day, at Muna’s birthday party, one of her classmates arrived early, and they played in her room. She is from Argentina and doesn’t speak English, and after two months in Costa Rica, Muna didn’t speak Spanish, or didn’t talk Spanish, as she would say. The two were laughing and giggling in Muna’s room, with no shared language. It was beautiful to witness. The language was not a barrier for my grandchildren. Children laugh. They point. They smile. They share a language of expressions and actions I hadn’t considered. Six months later, I heard Muna speaking to the same friend in Spanish, and this time, when the teacher said something I didn’t understand, Muna translated for me. At one point, she corrected me on the verb I used with one of her friends. And she was right.

During my recent visit, I returned to Muna’s school to spend the day with her. As we were walking to her classroom, one of her classmates asked me if I was Muna’s mama. I caught Muna’s side-eyed glance at me, then told him no, I was her grandma. He nodded, but not quite satisfied with my answer, he asked, “Well, is her mama going to come?” Before I could answer, Muna jumped in and responded, “No, she’s not going to come because I don’t have a mama. She died.” He nodded and said, “Ok.” And that was that. It hurt my heart that she had to answer his question, but she did, and she did it with grace. The punctuations of grief are ever-present. The boy called me “Grandma” for the rest of the day, each time, with Muna correcting him with “Laudie,” but he preferred “Grandma.”

Muna has four children in her class who don’t have moms. The two girls whose moms died happen to be the two girls whom I saw Muna playing with the most. I watched them at recess playing house, arguing over who got to be the mom, the role that they all wanted. Situations like that, which normally wouldn’t faze me, do now. Whether I want to or not, I see with my grandchildren through the lens of two children whose mother died a little over a year ago. I’m grateful that Muna has other girls walking the same path as her, and whether or not they ever talk about their moms, there’s comfort in knowing she isn’t the only one.

While we were outside for recess, Muna’s teacher told me that Muna was a happy girl and had made many friends. Her words brought tears to my eyes. There are countless adults dealing with the grief of losing Emery, but the two children, who were five and seven at the time, have always been my greatest worry. I remember at the hospital shortly after Emery died, when it hit me that there were two family members who hadn’t yet heard. Arlo and Muna. What about Arlo and Muna? Mothers have an innate sense to protect their children from harm and become mama bears when that is challenged. The protection instinct extended to my grandchildren. Arlo and Muna…what about Arlo and Muna? Muna’s teacher told me something I hadn’t considered. My grandchildren’s circle of protection was far more expansive than I realized. It had traveled to another country.

I spent a lot of time volunteering in Emery’s kindergarten class, and watching Muna in her classroom felt like a step back in time for me. Like her Mama, Muna was a friend to all, especially to the ones who looked like they were being left out. At one point, while we were seated across from each other, she looked at me and asked me what was wrong. I told her nothing. She told me my face looked like something was wrong. Emery did the same throughout her life, asking me what was wrong, and I’d usually respond, “nothing,” then she’d raise her brows and ask again, and after a few rounds, I’d tell her, sometimes not even realizing it until she had pointed it out. She was always right. Muna was also right; something was wrong, but I couldn’t share it with her. I couldn’t tell her that what she was seeing on my face was the ache in my heart that Emery won’t be able to be the one to tell me that Muna asked the teacher a question in perfect Spanish, or that she is the best in the class at elastics jumping, a skill she only recently learned, or that her daughter is becoming more and more like her every day. I envisioned Emery, standing off to the side in the classroom, arms folded across her chest, and a big smile of pride on her face. And I’d look at her, and we’d share a moment as we did so often on the sidelines with Arlo and Muna. I’d give her a nod that would say, You did this, Emery. She is your darling girl. And she’d smile back at me and nod her head. So much pride. So much love. So much sadness. Muna was right. My heart showed up on my face, and I couldn’t deny it, although I did.

Arlo made coffee for me every morning, using the traditional Costa Rican pour-over method with a bolsita, or coffee sock, with apologies that he couldn’t make the milk into a heart as they do in coffee shops. It wasn’t steamed milk, poured out of a small spout, but rather, cold milk poured out of a bottle, but he tried. After the first morning, I told him I was also Ok with drinking the coffee black, because it was so good it didn’t need the milk. I sensed his relief at not having to try to make the hearts. The first thing I thought of, as with so many things, was texting Emery because she would have been so proud. She would have sent the laughing emoji, followed by, “I love that so much, Mom.”

I miss having them ten minutes away. I miss running over to jump on the trampoline with Arlo and Muna or having Emery drop them off here to play. I miss the spontaneity. A ten-minute drive is now an all-day journey, but every hour of that journey is worth it. Arlo and Muna are my heart and my promise to their Mama before she died. And they are my forever connection.

Because I love me. Because you love me.

In April of 2025, I signed up for 30 days of writing prompts relating to grief. After reading Megan Devine’s book, “It’s Ok to not be OK,” the prompts felt like another way to approach my grief and would offer me a framework. It was through the prompts, when I was asked to “personalize my grief,” that I came to know my grief on a more personal level, and named her Wanda.

I tucked the 30 essays away into a folder and hadn’t looked at them since, until a few days ago. I remembered the physical act of writing the essays, where I was and what my view was, whether the bookshelves in my front room in Boulder, or the ocean view from my couch in the house where I was staying on the Oregon Coast. What I didn’t remember were the words. They took me back to a dark time, when I spent most of my day sleeping or writing. They made me weep for the girl who wrote them, her heart shattered, her life broken. They are a part of my timeline in this journey, part of my story. I’ve decided to share some of the prompts that inspired me.

The prompts, interpreted through my own lens, are in bold type. The words that follow were my spontaneous response, unedited and in the moment.

Day 30

Because I love me…

Because I love me, I want to help the broken mom. The mom standing on the left side of her daughter’s bed, smoothing her hair slowly and gently. Trying, with everything she had on the morning of January 4th, to say goodbye to her beautiful girl, something she’s not supposed to know how to do. Ever.

Because I love me, I see the woman I am today, broken, but trying hard to return to my life, while typing words into my computer, because words are my comfort and my place of healing. I see myself and reach out with love, knowing that nothing will ever be the same again, but I’m trying, and I’m typing.

Because I love me, I take a step back to widen my lens and see the woman I’m becoming, both the strong one and the one who struggles to get out of bed in the morning. I hold that broken woman. I hold her with care and softness because she is wounded. She is trying to put something back together that can’t be fixed or healed. I see her cut a handful of daisies from her garden and put them in a vase on her kitchen counter. They look sad because there are not enough flowers in the vase, but she’s too tired to go cut more. It’s like she’s trying to hold water. She can’t, but she tries.

She is spending as much time as she can with Arlo and Muna. They all need each other so desperately. Her only family in Boulder will be moving to Costa Rica in August. She is scared. She tries not to think about it too much, yet it’s constantly on her mind.

She just wants a break. She’s so tired. So exhausted. There has not been a day in the past 150 days that she hasn’t cried. Every day since January 1st. It’s been a terrible year. She used to love years ending in five because they were lucky, starting with the year she was born. Fives lost their luck this year.

Because I love me, I want to hold her, let her lean into me, put her head on my shoulder while I tell her it is all going to be Ok, but I honestly don’t think it will be. Oh, but I’m trying. I’m trying to help her get through the day, the hour, the minute. Hold on, I keep whispering, and stay in the moment. But “the moment,” she answers, is where the pain lives.

She wants to go back to last Christmas, when her daughter was alive, happy, and mothering her two children. When we were comforting each other because it was our first Christmas without my Dad, her Grandpa. She told me she liked my skirt. I told her I liked hers. She told me it was really a summer dress, but she added the sweater, hoping to make it look more wintery. I told her it was perfect, while marveling at her creativity. She needs those moments again, their levity, their joy.

She returns to the Mom standing at her daughter’s bedside…trying to say goodbye to her, not knowing in that moment that she was also trying to say goodbye to herself…the parts she would never see again. The parts that were left with her daughter.

Because you loved me…

Because you loved me, I’m better at finding the good in people and celebrating it. Your passing has left your brothers and me with an unexpected wisdom we didn’t have before. We are kinder. We are more intentional.

When Grant and I were driving away from the hospital on the morning you died, someone pulled out in front of us. It wasn’t as dangerous as it was irritating, and when I expressed my annoyance to Grant, his reply was, “We don’t know what they’re going through, Mom. Maybe they are rushing to the hospital because their sister was just put on life support.” He was right. We don’t know what other people are carrying, but we are paying attention now because of what we’re carrying.

Because you loved me, I know what calendula looks like in the wild, that lavender helps you sleep, that yarrow has antiseptic properties, and that rosemary is considered the herb of remembrance. I appreciate jars filled with herbs and open them to take in their aroma. I know a little, but not enough.

Because you loved me, I am a better person because you were in my life, and I’m also a better person because of your death. You showed me through your actions, starting as a very young girl, what kindness and showing up for other people looked like, even when it’s the more difficult path. You touched a lot of people in your short years, many who have reached out with their words of sympathy. Many whom I had never met.

Because you loved me, I hear you telling me to drink the tea, eat organic, take a walk, meditate, have an Epsom salt bath, and do all the other lovely, healthy things for your body and soul. And now, more than ever, because my body, my heart, and my spirit are hurting, I’m listening.

Because you loved me, I want to be better, especially now. I want to cultivate your gifts of kindness and generosity, and nurture your deep love of plants in my own life. I want to continue to be the best Laudie I can be for Arlo and Muna because I know that’s what you would want, and it was the promise I gave you when I told you goodbye. And Emery, you were a very good mother.

Because you loved me, and I had the honor of being your Mom, there is more depth to my life. I have more curiosity and have slowed down to take a closer look at something, or to smell a flower or an herb. You lived softly, but fiercely, and it was a beautiful combination.

Because you loved me, you told me you admired my ability to explain my world with words and weave the threads of my life into a story. You told me you loved my generosity with people I had never met. You told me when you were little that you wanted to grow up and be just like me. Well, my darling girl, I only gave you the seeds. You were the one who nurtured those seeds and watched them grow into fields of abundance and healing.

And now, in your absence, the words you told me, scribbled into pages of a journal, I will forever carry in my heart. I loved you every day of your life, and will miss you every day of my life. Because you loved me.

Magpies

While on a hike many years ago with my sister, Susan, she stopped on the trail, looked up at a magpie, and paid it a compliment. Then she continued on as if nothing strange had just happened. I asked her what she had just done, and she explained.
“When you see a magpie, you have to give it a compliment, or you’ll have bad luck. I learned it when I lived in Montreal.”
I didn’t remember seeing magpies where I lived in Kansas City, but maybe I hadn’t been looking. I lean into superstition and won’t walk under a ladder, turn around if a black cat crosses my path, and pay attention on Friday the 13th. I made a mental note to add complimenting magpies to my list to spare myself from bad luck.

“YOU are working out! And it shows!”
“You look especially nice this morning.”
“Love the black and white, as always.”


And so on. It has now become my habit as well.

When I first moved to Boulder, I went for a walk at Wonderland Lake with Emery. She was anxious to show me some of her favorite spots, and it was halfway between us, making it a perfect spot to meet for walks. She was eight months pregnant with her second, and we had 2-year-old, Arlo, along, so we didn’t go far or fast. We walked on a path next to a small lake to a playground for Arlo, with the beautiful backdrop of mountains framing our view. It’s a moment I remember well, as it was the first nature walk I did in Boulder, and it was with Emery. It’s a place I have returned to countless times since. While we were walking at the pace of a curious 2-year-old, who stopped to pick up small treasures along the way, I complimented a magpie that flew overhead. I told the bird it was looking good, then continued walking. Emery stopped, shook her head, and asked me what I was doing, and I told her. She didn’t seem as curious or touched by the endearing gesture as I had been. When it happened again, and I complimented another pretty black-and-white bird, Emery said, “You just moved here, Mom. Walks like this one are a good place to meet people, but the whole talking-to-birds thing… well…it’s not going to help you, Mom, and it’s kind of embarrassing.” It’s hard to be reprimanded by your child, but I knew she was right, and I gave her a pass for being tired and eight months pregnant. I made the next compliment silently, in my head, because according to Susan, that’s a viable option.

Several years later, Emery and I found a window of time to go on a nearby hike. I was in a hiking group that met several times a week, so I knew the local trails well. My magpie complimenting continued, albeit quietly, and I had forgotten about the day Emery told me in so many words that my behavior was embarrassing. But that day, to my surprise, it looked like she had changed her position. She stopped on the trail and complimented a magpie on how well he wore black and white. I looked at her and couldn’t help but laugh.
“I kind of like it, Mom. It feels like a nice thing to do, and if it keeps bad luck away, even better.”

We had come full circle. When your child makes the realization that something you’re doing that they originally made fun of now makes sense to them, it’s a feeling of triumph and success as a parent. I thought about Emery with her friends or family on a trail, complimenting a magpie and then explaining to whomever she is with, that her mom taught her that, and her aunt Susan taught her mom. I tucked that parenting gem aside and hadn’t thought about it until recently. I was at the same lake, walking the same trail, only this time it was a few days after the one-year anniversary of Emery’s death. I hadn’t been to that trail in over a year, or any trail in the Boulder area for that matter. My hiking had been whittled down to 20 or 30-minute walks around my neighborhood, and even that, on some days, is a push. I had been to my favorite bakery just down the street from the parking lot at Wonderland Lake, and I instinctively pulled into the lot without a second thought. It felt like where I was supposed to be that day. I started walking towards the lake. It was mid-afternoon on a weekday, and the trail was quiet.

There are many spots in Boulder that have become emotional triggers because they are places where Emery and I shared experiences, and Wonderland Lake, I realized that afternoon, was no exception. The memory of Emery and me with 2-year-old Arlo hit me, and I paused to take it in and let the tears flow. I remembered the late afternoon weather, the reflections of the mountains on the lake, and how uncomfortable Emery was at eight months pregnant. Being reconnected with moments I had with Emery is both difficult and heartwarming. It brings Emery close to me, but it also stirs up emotions and tears, often at times and places where I’d rather not be seen sobbing, but I’m getting used to it because it is my life these days.

After a moment of sobbing on the empty trail, I started walking again and was startled by the sound of birds ahead. I walked closer to the sound and was surprised and delighted to see it a tree FILLED with magpies, or a mischief or a charm, as they are called in groups. Not only was I at the same lake where Emery had learned about the magpie superstition, but I was at the same spot on the path where it had happened. And now, a year after Emery died, I was encountering the magpies again, but this time a tree full of them, and not just the usual single.

I have since learned that magpies are usually found solo, and that is where the complimenting came from as it is assumed they lost their mate and could use the kind words. Magpies in a group, however, symbolize good luck and a belief that they are sacred messengers from the other side. That day, in the exact same spot as on my first walk around the lake with Emery, seeing the mischief of magpies gave me chills. I knew in my heart of hearts that it was a gift from her, sent with a wink and a smile. And yes, I complimented them, albeit as a group rather than individually. I remembered her embarrassment at my gesture that day, thinking it could lessen my chances of meeting people in a town where I knew no one, then several months later, seeing her do the same thing. The sun was behind a cloud, illuminating the sky behind the tree, giving it a spotlight effect. I stood in front of that tree for a long time, letting myself take it in, crying and smiling at the same time. Emery’s presence in her absence, today, with a bit of humor.

As I made my way back to my car, it seemed the magpies were doing the same as they followed me, moving en masse from one tree to another, in the same direction I was walking. They were following me, and having them near felt comforting.

I met with an intuitive in the early days after Emery’s death, who was suggested to me. I felt compelled to try to understand what was beyond my grasp after her death, and thought I could find answers with her. My time with her was profound, and she told me things that only Emery and I knew, legitimizing her for me.

One thing she told me that felt so relevant was that when I see birds that made me think of her, I should know she is not the bird, but sent the bird or birds. I had to laugh because it sounded like Emery, and I could almost hear the inflection of her voice and see her raised brows and coy grin. I looked up at the tree and gave the squeaking mob of magpies a compliment on their timing, along with how good they looked in black and white, and thanked Emery for sending them.

This time, my darling girl, you would not have been embarrassed.

The child becomes the teacher.

I’ve often told my grown children that there came a time when they became the teacher, and I became the student. The change in roles was an unexpected gift, and although the lessons weren’t always obvious in the moment, in time, I’d understand their significance. Through their actions and words, they modeled for me a different way to interact with the world.

In Emery’s early days of kindergarten, I’d ask her who she played with at recess. That was a question I knew she’d be excited to answer, because in her early school years, Emery was there for the social aspect and little else. I would get a detailed list of her friends that day; most of them I knew, and several who had been to our house to play. One day, when I asked, she told me she didn’t know the girl’s name because she forgot to ask.
“Was she in your class?”
“No, and I don’t know what grade she is in, but no one else was playing with her. She was sitting by herself.”

I didn’t know who she was talking about, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Emery would seek out the one no one else was playing with. I was touched by my daughter’s compassion. Would I have done the same at her age? That gave me pause.

I didn’t know who she was talking about, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Emery would seek out the one no one else was playing with. I was touched by my daughter’s compassion. Would I have done the same at her age? That gave me pause.


When my children were in elementary school, every day on our short ride home, I’d ask them to tell me one thing they’d learned that day. Their unanimous responses of “nothing” made my daily questions seem pointless. I changed my wording. “Tell me one good thing that happened today.” Again, mumbles of “I don’t know,” or the usual, “nothing.” The day I asked if anyone had thrown up, my question was met with enthusiasm and stories. That lasted for a few days. I gave up, and one day, at dinner, without any thought or strategy, I asked them to tell me their favorite part of the day. Not what they learned, not one good thing, not who threw up, but their favorite part of the day. And they started talking. My son, Thomas, is still talking about it every night at his dinner table when he and his family share both their rose of the day and the thorn.

A few years ago, when I was babysitting my grandchildren, Arlo and Muna, who were 4 and 6 at the time, I was reading to Arlo before tucking him in and asked him the question I had asked his Mama so many times at the dinner table. “What was your favorite thing that happened today, Arlo?” He looked up at me, somewhat confused, as if I should already know the answer. “It’s right now, Laudie. My favorite thing today is now, and you reading Frog and Toad to me.” My grandchildren are teaching me how to be present, and that is where I can find them, because that is where they live. It is what has helped them in their grief of losing their Mama because their brains don’t have the complex reasoning at their age that would have them looking into their future, without their Mama, as I do. They have no preconceived notions of how things should be, and that has become their greatest protector. They are quietly showing me the way without realizing it

Recently, on one of my many trips to Portland to see my son, Thomas, and his family, I had another grandchild moment that gave me pause. I had just finished some work on my computer, and my three-year-old granddaughter, Ozma, saw my screensaver. It is a photo of me with Emery, Thomas, and Grant on a beach in Santa Barbara. She studied the photo, deep in thought, then asked, “Is that Aunt Emery when she used to be alive? When she didn’t used to be dead?”

I was caught off guard by her honesty. “Yes, that is Aunt Emery when she used to be alive.” She nodded her small blonde head and said, “I thought so.” And that was that. Out of the mouths of babes, words that were pure and honest and spoke the truth that many adults struggle with. The wisdom, honesty, and awe of children continually amaze me. I’m listening more. I’m paying attention. I’m noticing the memories that come up, and I’m letting them have a seat and get comfortable.

I’ve written a lot about the signs Emery has given me since she died; moments that have opened me up to other signs that the universe is giving me through grief. I’m recalling stories that have landed with purpose. I’m living in the moment.

Recently, I was going through a trunk filled with notebooks and stacks of typed essays, letters, stories, and poems. Sandwiched between two of the journals was a small stack of 3×5 cards that were rubber-banded together. When I read the top card, I knew what they were. My first Thanksgiving after I divorced, I hosted the family for dinner, including Charlie, who would legally no longer be my husband the following month. I gave everyone a blank card and told them to write down what they were thankful for. From my hostess spot at the head of the table, I read them one by one before we ate. My family, because they couldn’t see the handwriting, then tried to guess who had written each card, a bonus I hadn’t planned on. As I made my way through the stack of cards with words of gratitude for being together, for being invited, for good health, and for a recent Kansas City Chiefs win, I stopped on the one with large, childlike printing. I knew who wrote it as I recognized the handwriting. I am thankful for being alive. Emery found gratitude in what most of us take for granted. Not a new pair of shoes (although my girl loved shoes), or an invite to a sleepover, but to be alive. Emery was a mature 14-year-old when she wrote those words. I read the card over and over, as if I didn’t understand what the six words meant. The timing of the discovery was not lost on me. That small yellow card held my world. I propped it up on my desk, wedging it between a wooden box my grandmother used to keep her paint brushes in and a piece of rose quartz. It hasn’t always been easy to be grateful for being alive this past year, and now I have her reminder.

Someone recently told me that I’m still here, even on the most difficult days, because I’m not done yet. I liked that. It held purpose. My miracle of life, as I write so often from the fetal position, is that I continue to wake up every morning with the quiet agreement to fight, even on days when I don’t want to. I try to find the joy, the connections, and the sparkles in what has become the mire. I try to remember the words on Emery’s card. I am thankful for being alive.

Pieces of Emery.

I have several large jars of herbs that Emery collected from her garden on my shelf, all marked with the contents and the date collected in her handwriting, using blue painter’s tape. The most recent one was collected in October 2024. The lineup of jars is beautiful in its variety of colors and textures, and although they are meant to be steeped in water and used in teas for healing or comfort, I will never make tea out of their contents. Instead, I look at the jars in their prominent position in my kitchen and often stop to open them and inhale their scents, but I don’t use their contents. I don’t want them to run out. They have become another way I’m honoring my daughter’s passions. Another way I am holding on. It feels like I’m inhaling a bit of Emery when I open the jars to take in their bouquet, provoking memories of walking through her gardens with her as she gathered herbs and flowers into a basket. Emery had a scent that she loved to wear, but her true scent didn’t come from a bottle. She smelled like the earth. Like lemon balm, anise, chamomile, and sweaty children. Emery smelled like life to me.

Jars of herbs, photos, stones, trinkets, and a river-rock paperweight painted like a ladybug she made in grade school, are among the many items that have become physical stand-ins for memories that are gathering organically in my home.

After Emery died, I helped two of her dearest friends clear her things out of the bathroom. I brought a box of her toiletries home—shampoos, lotions, moisturizers, perfume oils, and other bottles she dipped into on a daily basis. I used the products with care and love until I realized they would soon be gone, then added “sparingly” to my routine. Her bottles of product became tangible items when she wasn’t. What will happen when they become empty bottles? I can buy these products when hers run out, but will they hold the same value without the significance of having once been hers?

In my mind of magical thinking, I’m gathering pieces of her and bringing her back, one dried flower, one piece of rose quartz, one inhale of her herbs at a time. If I gather enough of her things, can I piece her back together again? Bring her back to me? Grief is the gateway to pondering the impossible and things you know will never happen, yet I keep doing it. I used to call Dad’s and Emery’s phones until they were no longer in service, knowing they wouldn’t answer, but what if, in my magical realm of thinking, they did?

Several months after Emery died, I had her daughter, Muna, over for a sleepover. She hadn’t spent the night by herself and was very excited, arriving with a backpack loaded with enough clothes and “had to bring it” items to last several nights. Miles told me she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, crying out for her Mama, and that he would be sure to have his phone on just in case. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was ready. She headed up the steps to my room as if on a mission and said she would be “getting her things sorted out” and would be down in a minute. I went up to check on her a few minutes later, and she had taken all the miscellaneous bottles, headbands, combs, and her toothbrush from her toiletry bag and lined them up neatly on my bathroom counter. “Look, Laudie, it’s like I live here! With you!” She had settled in nicely. I looked at the items that came out of Emery’s pink satin toiletry bag that were organized on my bathroom counter—items of Emery’s that were given to her on the day of the bathroom clean—out: lipstick, eyeshadow, lotions, and creams. It reminded me of Emery when she was the same age, and I had taken her on a trip to visit one of my sisters. Toiletry items lined up in anticipation gave me comfort in their familiarity.

Later that night, Muna cried out, and I woke up, ready to comfort her, but she immediately fell back asleep. The light of the moon coming in through a window illuminated her face, and in my half-asleep state, I thought she was Emery. Her hair, her smell, and the way she held Sims, the stuffed dog that was once Emery’s, were Emery. It took me a moment to realize it was my granddaughter, not my daughter, lying next to me. I took in the beauty and innocence of the 5-year-old girl, who lay beside me, both of us suffering the unfathomable loss of a daughter and a mother. It hit me in that moment that the love Muna has for her Mama and the love I have for my daughter will always be intertwined in the love we share for each other. She will be my link to my daughter, and I will be her link to her Mama. The moment took my breath away. When she lay back down, it was like Emery had done as a child, with her head not on the pillow, but butted up next to it. I had stepped back in time for a moment, and five-year-old Emery and I were having a sleepover. Muna looks like Emery and shares her compassion, empathy, and strong will, and I often call her Emery out of habit. It will be the ache and the gift she will always carry.

The next morning, Muna put on a headband that I remembered Emery wearing. The pride with which she wore the much-too-big pink band, perched awkwardly at her hairline, made it even more beautiful. Emery’s things, spread out over three generations, both of us using and wearing them with deep love and pride, but for me, with the fear of them running out.

Last fall, I was in Kansas City with Thomas and Grant for the launch of the foundation they founded with Emery. I was wearing a pair of her shoes she had given me, which, after several wearings, she decided were too big. I wore them because they looked good with my outfit, but while I was being introduced throughout the evening as Emery, Thomas, and Grant’s Mom, I realized that wearing Emery’s shoes went far deeper than looking cute with the pants I had on. I was metaphorically and physically in her shoes, and I couldn’t help but smile with pride at the realization. At one point, I told one of the board members who was especially fond of Emery that I was wearing her shoes. She looked down at the clunky, black fisherman sandals, smiled and said, “I’m guessing there was a time when Emery would wear your shoes, as a little girl, and now it’s your time to wear hers. She’d be so proud of you.” And like Dorothy’s red shoes, the shoes I was wearing had a power I hadn’t expected.

When we were going through Emery’s things last summer, I noticed one of my Dad’s cards that he kept in his walker to give to people he met at his retirement home. They represented Dad so well that they were handed out at his celebration of life. It was propped up against a large piece of rose quartz on the nightstand next to Emery’s bed. I was touched to see the prominent place she had placed the card, knowing she read the words every night before sleep. The card said, Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain. We’re all trying to find out dance steps in the rain without falling, Dad.

The purse that Emery “borrowed” a dozen or so years ago is back in my possession, and it made me happy that she had a few of Dad’s cards in it, along with a Photo Booth photo of Muna and me and a few parking tickets. It was the purse she had carried up until a few days before she died, and after seeing it for so many years on her shoulder, it feels good to be back on mine. Pieces of Emery. On my shoulder, on my wrists, on my face, on my body. The tangibles when she is no longer.

A few days after Emery died, I noticed that Muna was wearing one of Emery’s hair clips in her hair. The oversized clip in her fine curls, a combination of vulnerability and love, had me holding back tears. At one point, she took it out and asked me to hold onto it for her. I told her I would, then before she left the room, she came back to me and in a very quiet, secret-like voice, said,
“Be very careful with it, Laudie; it was Mama’s, and I don’t want anything to happen to it.”

I took the clip from her, receiving it from her small hand to mine, like a delicate flower. I held it for a while, then, rather than setting it down, I put it in my hair, checking first for loose hairs, almost instinctually. I wondered when it was last in Emery’s hair.

I’m holding onto the relics of memory I can touch, wear on my body, or take in through their scent, and am comforted in their familiarity. Pieces of Emery.

The sweaters.

Not my sweater, or its replacement, but very similar.

When I first moved into my home in Boulder, I didn’t have a closet. Specifically, I didn’t have a closet for my clothes (or my coats, but that’s another story). I had a room, but the shelves and racks hadn’t been installed. My contractor got me temporary hanging racks so I could at least get my clothes off the floor and onto hangers.

My sisters were in town to help me get settled after my move, and on their last day, we tackled my clothes. A very pregnant Emery, her husband, Miles, and their 2-year-old son, Arlo, were also there to help, although Arlo was mostly there for our entertainment as he wasn’t interested in the task at hand. I was grateful to have Miles around as the racks arrived unassembled, and I have little patience or aptitude for putting things together. While Miles assembled the racks, Emery and my sisters unboxed and hung my clothes in assembly line fashion. An impromptu closet clean-out began because I couldn’t put large piles of clothes in front of my daughter and sisters without them forming a giveaway pile and a save pile, whether I liked it or not. Before an item was hung, it was held up before the group, and responses such as “absolutely,” “sure,” or “seriously?” were shouted out. Humbling, yet efficient.

While all of this was going on, two-year-old Arlo was helping himself to the box of Halloween costumes my children had worn, parading through the room as a tiger, a bumblebee, and a magician; a nice distraction from all the enthusiasm my sisters and daughters had for my ill-chosen clothing items. The giveaway pile was growing, alongside my irritation.

After a few hours, everything that had been saved was hung, and sweaters were returned to the boxes they had been packed in because I still didn’t have drawers or shelves yet. It was late August. I was still a few months away from sweater weather.

The following morning, after taking my sisters to the airport, I dropped the large box of giveaways off at the local Goodwill and returned home to organize what was left of my clothes. I couldn’t find the box of sweaters, but instead, found a box of giveaways, and knew immediately what had happened. I immediately drove to Goodwill, hoping to retrieve the box of sweaters that I had inadvertently given away. The manager, a kind and empathetic man, told me my box was already on its way to another Goodwill somewhere in Denver, because they were a distribution center. I was surprised that anything could happen that quickly, so I did some searching in the store on my own, but had no luck.

I was devastated. My carefully curated box of at least a dozen sweaters, collected over many years, was gone. I called Emery, as I often did in a crisis, because she was both a voice of reason and a source of comfort. I also knew that, given her love of clothes, she would understand my distress. Her initial response surprised me.



“Well, that sucks, Mom, but just think how happy it will make someone to find your beautiful sweaters! You’re really going to make someone’s day… or several people’s.”


There was a little too much lilt in her voice. I tried to shift gears to her line of thinking, but I wasn’t ready.


I added, “The cashmere sweaters, Emery…”
“And that will make the finders even happier, Mom.”
“The vintage Ralph Lauren blanket sweater was also in the box.”
There was an audible gasp. Her tone shifted.
“Oh no… not the vintage Ralph Lauren!”
“I’m afraid so.”


Now she understood. The cashmere sweaters could easily be replaced, but the Ralph Lauren sweater had been in my closet for over 35 years and remained one of my favorite pieces. We commiserated over the phone, knowing there was nothing we could do. What Emery was good at, and what I struggled with, was letting go, and I knew she was right. Someone (or several people) would be very excited with their finds. I had to let it go. I had to move on.

A few days later, to celebrate my birthday, Emery and I walked to the shopping area in Boulder, a few blocks from my house. She told me she wanted to start replenishing my sweater collection for my birthday. Three sweater purchases later, we ended my birthday celebration with lunch in one of our favorite restaurants. It was one of my most memorable shopping days with Emery because of her enthusiasm for replenishing my sweater inventory while understanding how upset I was. I still have the three sweaters, even though she told me a few years later that maybe it was time to donate at least one of them, as they had seen better days. She was right, but I hung onto all three, not necessarily because I still loved them, but because I loved the history of their purchase.

That Christmas, Emery gave me a Ralph Lauren sweater. She hadn’t found my sweater at Goodwill, but found its near twin on eBay, and it was more beautiful than the one I had owned because of its journey to me.

Emery was continually teaching me how to let go of things that didn’t really matter and to hold on to those that did, but I was a tough student. I returned to Goodwill multiple times, hoping I had been told wrong and that my box of carefully curated sweaters hadn’t left Boulder after all, and that I would be able to find them on the racks and rebuy them for a small price. I never found the sweaters, nor did I ever tell Emery about my continued search, although of course she knew I had searched, because she knew me. Eventually, I stopped looking and shifted to what Emery had told me. “Just think of how happy it will make someone to find your beautiful sweaters.”

There was a generosity of spirit that came naturally to Emery, and one that I continue to learn from. I may not be so quick to see the altruistic side of a situation, but in her memory, my daughter has me looking much harder than I used to.