The E-Harmony Experiment

She did it. I was surprised, not surprised, and am still amused.I got an email from Emery shortly before my 60th birthday that began with:

Don’t get mad, but…

Any communication that begins that way puts me on alert, especially when it’s from my children. Emery was living in Ft Collins, Colorado, newly married, and I was living in Kansas City. The email continued…


You’re going to be getting an email from a guy named Mike, and he’s going to ask you out on a date. Please give him a chance. He seems like a really nice guy.


I immediately picked up the phone and called her. “A guy named Mike, whom I’ve never heard of, is going to ask me out on a date? How is that going to happen, Emery?”
There was a notable pause on the phone.
“Well, I kind of signed you up for E-Harmony.”
“What do you mean, kind of? How did you kind of sign me up for a dating website?”
“Well…(another long pause), I pretended I was you.”
“You pretended you were me?” “Yeah, I did. And I wrote your profile and used some great pictures of you. My favorite ones.” You wrote my profile?”
“I did! And Mom, you would have totally approved of what I wrote. It was really good.”


She went on to explain the details. She had signed me up a few weeks earlier, and E-Harmony had selected a man named Mike as a match for me. Mike agreed. Emery, acting on my behalf, had been emailing him. Evidently, there was a spark between us in our email conversations. My reactions were conflicted. I was touched that Emery had gone to the trouble and expense in hopes of finding me a partner. Then I felt sad; sad that she had gone to the trouble and expense in hopes of finding me a partner.


A few days later, before Mike could reach out to the real Laurie, Emery texted me and said, “No need to worry about Mike. He won’t be reaching out.” And again, I picked up the phone to find out why my potential love interest was no longer interested. Had “I” said something to offend him in our conversations? Emery told me no, she just decided she no longer thought Mike was a good match for me. She didn’t go into further details except to say that the communication with Mike had ended. In fact, the whole E-Harmony experiment had ended, which she also didn’t go into any detail about. I’m guessing Emery had made the discovery through her brief encounter with online dating that it wasn’t as easy as she had assumed. Mike and I were finished before we got started. Case closed. Dating site done. I later asked her which photos she had posted and if I could read what she had written about me. She said no. She didn’t want to share my profile with me because she thought I might be overly critical, which would have been true.

I hadn’t given any thought to the online dating experiment until now. Now, I would like to see the words Emery chose to describe her mom on a dating site. Now I want to see the traits of mine she led with, and the ones she purposely omitted. How had my daughter chosen to describe me to a stranger?


E-Harmony wasn’t Emery’s first attempt at playing matchmaker with me, although it was the one that she put the most effort into and made for the best story. Her college Anthropology professor, with whom she went to the Amazon on a study abroad, was the first. Or at least the first that I knew about or can recall. This “set up” happened when she returned from her studies in the Amazon. She arranged for the three of us to meet in his office at the University of Kansas with the intent of discussing anthropology, or so she said. Given that my degree was in anthropology, I understood her line of reasoning, but I knew it was his charm and good looks that were driving the train and not our shared field of study. It didn’t go quite as Emery had planned, as he spent the hour ranting about a clothing company with local roots that he felt was taking advantage of the Peruvian people with their overpriced clothing, while giving very little back to Peru. I agreed with him, as did Emery, but it wasn’t the direction she planned. She later learned that there was a girlfriend, or possibly a wife, so thoughts of her mom and her anthropology professor getting together were quickly dismissed. It was a failed attempt, but a winning moment. When you have a daughter who loves you so much that she starts planning and scheming with the end goal being your happiness, you are blessed beyond measure. And I was. And I am.

The E-Harmony experiment has left me with questions that hold more weight now that I will never have the answers. “Why did we…? Who was with us when we…? What was the name of the girl who was with us when we…?What were we talking about during that magical moment when we watched the sunrise over Machu Picchu? I remember it was important, but I don’t remember what it was. The answers to those questions and countless more hold more value now that I know they will never be answered.

E-Harmony is just one more missing piece in an ongoing puzzle I’ve worked on since Emery died that will never be completed. It’s like the jigsaw puzzle I tried to complete during my time on the Oregon Coast. I could see what the finished puzzle would look like on the box lid, but I didn’t finish it because many of the pieces were missing. The missing details of our shared stories are the holes in the puzzle, spread out on the yellow linoleum table.

I no longer have the person whose memory was always stronger than mine and could fill in the details I had forgotten. But the picture, missing pieces and all, is always the same; a deep love between a mother and a daughter, who were so connected that sometimes it was hard to see where one person ended and the other began (words borrowed from Emery).

My world has been rearranged, and I’m stumbling through the dance of holding love and grief together while learning how to carry Emery into a future where she will never exist physically. There are days when I see the picture and not the missing pieces, and other days, when grief is the driver, and all I see are the empty spots in the puzzle. The threads of joy—the E-Harmony memories, the time spent in a professor’s office while my daughter played matchmaker between the handsome professor, who may or may not have been married, are my counterbalance to the sadness and the missing. They make the unbearable a little bit more bearable. Sometimes, they even make me laugh.

Airports

Airports. I’ve been in them a lot lately, and I’ve recognized a pattern. They make me cry. Or at least now they do. This, I discovered several days ago in Terminal B of the Denver airport. Cycling through memories has replaced reading a book while I wait at the boarding gate. They hit me hard, both the beautiful and the difficult. They make me cry.

The last time I flew with Emery and her then-3-year-old and 5-year-old children, Emery insisted on driving to the airport. She wanted to control the schedule, and, as the one with two small children, she had earned that right. She also wanted to leave at least an hour later than I would have, which made me nervous. I like to be early, really early, for the “just in case” situations that have yet to happen.

We drove row by row through the parking garage at the Denver airport for longer than I was comfortable with. Emery reassured me that we were fine on time, but after 30 minutes of driving up and down full row after full row, she said we probably should have left earlier, and that was when the real panic set in for me. We eventually found a spot and, loaded down with luggage and two children, rushed to our gate, arriving ten minutes before boarding. Emery told me her timing was perfect because, when she travels with her children, she likes to cut it as close as she can given the limited patience kids have with travel. As a mom, I understood. As someone who is always early, I didn’t, but I loved traveling with Emery, anxiety and all. She was teaching me patience with each of our trips, although I still can’t let go of my “can’t be there too early” timeline.

Today, while I waited at the same airport, with an hour and a half to spare, I wondered how many flights Emery and I had taken together. How many places? How many different airports?

The day after Emery died, my sons and I were at the Denver airport. Thomas was flying to his home in Portland, and Grant and I were flying to LA. My daughters-in-law had been by themselves during the horrific 2 1/2 days, with constant updates on Emery’s condition via phone calls, texts, and FaceTimes. We needed each other more than ever. We needed to meet each other at doorways with tearful embraces. When we returned to Boulder two days later, we would spend the next 3 1/2 weeks together in a rented house. Our non-Jewish family sitting shiva.

While we were returning the rental car Thomas and Grant had gotten when they arrived, the attendant, in a happy, overly cheerful voice, asked us how our trip had been. Thomas responded, “Not great,” and left it at that. The agent wasn’t satisfied and continued, “How can anyone come to Colorado and not have a great time?” Thomas looked at Grant and me, shook his head, and started unloading our luggage from the car without responding. That odd feeling that life had continued without stopping after our trauma, hit hard. He was only doing his job.

When Grant and I found our seats at the gate, only a few gates down from where Thomas was, all the passengers seated near us were mothers and daughters traveling together. Or at least that’s what it looked like to me, given the emotional state I was in. So much of me was missing. I didn’t feel like a whole person. I was weary. I was lost. I couldn’t have made it through TSA, onto the train, and to the gate without Grant and Thomas directing me. I didn’t hold back my tears. Grant put his arm around me, and maybe he was also crying. I don’t remember. I was carrying the unfathomable burden of a mother’s worst nightmare, and my sons had lost their only sister. We were pacing through this new version of our lives with open wounds of grief, confused and still trying to make sense of what had happened. It had taken me multiple tries to book Grant and my flight the day before, hours after Emery died. Although booking flights was something I had done hundreds of times before, after several attempts, I ended up calling the airlines and letting them do it for me. The next day, Thomas and Grant guided me through the traveling process the following day. It’s no wonder airports make me cry. Those traumatic moments now live in every cell of my body.

The unseen burden of missing is my other piece of luggage, which I’m dragging behind me through TSA, to the gate, and onto the plane. It has me in tears at gate 49, an hour and a half before my flight. I laugh through the tears. Emery wouldn’t have even left her house yet had she been on the flight.

John Denver’s Take Me Home starts playing. Maybe it always plays, given that it is the Denver Airport, but today was the first time I heard it, and it hit me hard enough to stop typing this essay on my phone and listen. Emery loved John Denver. She also loved Elton John and Billy Joel, and once told me she had the musical tastes of someone at least 30 years older than she was. “Like me, Emery?” “ Exactly, Mom. Like you.” When she was a freshman in college, she asked me to go to a concert with her, which, along with the thoughtful gesture of inviting me, meant I would be the one to buy the tickets. She wanted to see Elton John and Billy Joel. Again, the musical taste of someone twice her age. As we were walking to the concert hall, I was confused as to which one it was being held in. Emery said, “Just follow the Land’s End jackets, Mom. They know where they’re going.” I’m not sure if there were any Land’s End jacket-wearing people on the crowded sidewalks, but I knew exactly what she was saying. It was a middle-aged crowd who knew the words to every song and sang along, my 19-year-old daughter included. She was an old soul in every sense of the word, including her taste in music.

Now I’m crying, and people are staring, and honestly, I’m so used to it that I don’t bother covering my face. I watch people walking down the concourse, wondering what their stories are and where they are going. Making up stories about the travelers was something Emery and I were very good at, a pastime that originated with my sisters and me. This time, my made-up stories were derailed by a curiosity I had never seen before at the airport. Several people, I’m guessing in their 20s, were clutching stuffed animals as they made their way to their gates. Heads bowed over a cell phone had been replaced by stuffed animals held tightly to the chest, like the ones my granddaughters would carry. It looked strange, but at the same time, it made sense because it represented comfort. I don’t own a stuffed animal, but if I did, it’s possible I’d be taking it out of my pack about now.

I have an overpacked backpack and a carry-on, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll be able to lift them into the overhead bin given their weight, but the heaviest load is the one no one can see I’m carrying: the weight of carrying love and grief at the same time. I think about the early days traveling with Emery and having her lead us to baggage claim upon arrival. I wanted her to feel comfortable navigating airports, and finding our way to the baggage claim seemed like an easy start. I was successful. Emery became more confident with airports and schedules than I’ve ever been.

Passengers begin lining up to board, and I take my place in the line, slowly making my way to the counter, where my boarding pass is scanned. I walk down the long jetway, wondering how many jetways I’ve walked down in the past 16 months. Too many. Not enough. I’ve left more than I have stayed because, even with the difficulties airports now present for me, leaving is still easier than staying.

I make my way to my seat, always by the window, and turn away from the passenger seated next to me. Tears flow down my cheeks while I look out at the familiar hive of ground activity on the tarmac. Countless flights to various destinations, and it hasn’t gotten any easier.

There is no mystery as to my new relationships with airports or why they have become so difficult for me, yet it is still hard for me to admit.

I’m going on without her.

Where would I take you?

Day 14, from my 30 days of grief prompts.

The blue couch… so much joy and so much sadness

Where would I take you? If I could. I didn’t have to think long on this one. The answer felt as if it was waiting for the question to be asked. The Oregon Coast. I would take you to the Oregon Coast, Emery. It would be April, because it is April now, and even though you prefer sunny days to rain, I’m not worried. You are going to love it as much as I do.

After Dad died, and my sister was diagnosed with an incurable cancer, Emery helped me with daily calls and reminders to breathe, promising it would get better. “Put your hand over your heart, Mom, and inhale and slowly exhale. I’m here.” In my journal pages, I found the only entry written from those days.
“I know I’m depressed. I know I should go hike or, at the very least, walk around the block. I don’t ever remember feeling this down.” I felt like I had hit rock bottom, and Emery was helping me find my way out.

I remember during those dark days, Emery telling me she wanted to take me somewhere, anywhere really, because we needed a mother-daughter trip. She mentioned pink champagne and shopping for things we didn’t need. She wanted to mother me, and I wanted to let her. Four months later, Emery died, and what I thought had been my rock bottom would go deeper than I ever could have imagined. I returned to Manzanita, Oregon, a few months after she died, to the same house I had rented the year before, but this time it was vastly different from the previous year. I was deep in grief. My rock bottom became a dark cave with only slivers of light coming in. I don’t remember much about that month, and given the state I was in, I’m not sure how I fed myself or functioned with the day-to-day tasks of being human. I returned to the coast because I wanted to be inspired and held by the ocean while I wrote, walked the beach, cried, and grieved. I responded to writing prompts focused on grief, and in doing so, I’m playing out the fantasy that Emery is still here. At least in my words. We are still planning.

We are sitting on the blue couch, looking out at the ocean from the living room’s large picture windows. We could sit outside on the deck, but it’s chilly this morning, and inside feels cozier. I turned on the fireplace and poured a cup of coffee for each of us. I’m sorry, Emery, I don’t have matcha, as I know that’s what you’d prefer.

The beach is empty except for one man and his dog. He’s out every morning, rain or shine. He and the dog will be back for sunset. I know you’ll be watching the dog more than the man, wondering its name and wishing you were on the beach so you could pet it. The sun is out now, although there will likely be a pop-up rain shower later today. You sigh. I think you love it as much as I do, and I think you’re surprised by that, because, as my sun-loving daughter, you didn’t like rainy days.

You tell me how beautiful it is, the waves crashing up on the beach. We feel so close, even though we are inside. You tell me you’ve always considered yourself a mountain girl, and now you wonder if maybe you’re an ocean girl instead. I tell you, I think you can be both, as I feel the same way. You tell me you understand my love for this magical place. That makes me happy. And now I sigh as I write, because you didn’t see the beach or the small town where I rented the house. You did, however, see Cannon Beach, just north of where I was staying. We went with two other families and spent several days there. You were five. You liked everything at five, except naps, so of course you liked Cannon Beach. I know you‘d remember that vacation, or at least pieces of it, because one of your best friends was also there. We were a group of 14. We didn’t move through the coastal town without a lot of attention and likely exasperated sighs from the waitress at the restaurant we claimed ours for every breakfast and several lunches. So you had been to the Oregon coast, but not where I have landed now, and not as an adult, nor have you ever sat on the blue couch with me while looking out at the ocean. I set those thoughts aside and return to the fantasy I’m writing.

We quietly watch the sea, seated next to each other on the blue couch. The sun comes out, and we bundle up and head down to the beach. You wear one of my jackets, and it’s huge on you, but, like everything else, you wear it well.

We walk across the street to the six steps leading down to the beach. You stop at the bottom step to soak it all in and marvel at the beauty that I’ve talked about so much. We turn right, towards Neahkahnie Mountain, the beach nearly deserted. You ask me if it’s always like this, so few people, and I tell you yes, but then again, it’s April, not a popular time for beach goers. Even a dozen people would feel crowded to me. I’ve been spoiled. I’ve gotten used to the solitude of this beach in April.

We find a large piece of driftwood and take a seat. I point down the beach to the tide pools, and tell you it is where Thomas and his girls walk from the house they rent to look for starfish. You tell me you want to go there later and look for yourself. She’s making plans. She loves it.

You tell me it is the perfect place for a writer, and I agree. You asked me to show you the spot on the beach where I saw the lineup of people and the girl in the yellow raincoat holding the box, which I believed contained ashes. I pointed it out to you, and you told me you thought the story I wrote was one of your favorites. I didn’t know when I wrote it that less than nine months later, you would factor into another essay inspired by the girl in the yellow raincoat with the box of ashes, but the actors would be different. It would be your family. A mother, a father, two brothers, a husband, and two children.; all trying to make sense of something that doesn’t. All grieving your death. But now, you’re with me, while I experience the gift of having you, in a fleeting moment of creativity that I have formed with my words.

As we walk back to my rental house, you stoop down to pick up a heart-shaped rock and start to put it in your pocket, but then hesitate and set it back down on the sand. Why didn’t you take it, I ask? You know, for a little souvenir? You tell me that you don’t need to take the rock because you have the memory of finding it while walking on the beach with me, and that’s enough. Of course, that’s what you say because that’s who you are. I remembered being with you once and you finding something on a sidewalk. Was it a penny? Probably. You decided not to pick it up, but instead, wanted to leave it for someone else to find. I think about that now when I see a coin on the sidewalk or the floor, but I pick it up, because now, I see it as a gift from you, intended for me.

It starts to rain, so we return to the house and our place on the blue couch. You lean into me and put your head on my shoulder, your eyes fixed on the beauty of the ocean through the filter of light rain. I can see why you love it, Mom. I’m so happy you’ve found this piece of heaven.

That is where I would have gone. That is where I would have taken you.

I shift out of my fantasy and back into my reality. I have a deep longing for something I have never experienced. A longing for the endless possibilities I thought lay in front of us.

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.