Month: November 2025

Thanksgiving, revisited.

Thanksgiving, 2024

Life is short. Make it sweet.

These words were printed on a wooden block that fell off a shelf and landed inches from my feet as I filled my coffee cup at McClain’s Bakery in Kansas City. I picked up the block just as an employee came over, profusely apologizing, and returned it to the shelf next to the coffee urns.

I took my coffee to a nearby table and opened my computer to work on some writing, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the falling block and its message.  It felt like a tap on the shoulder that I couldn’t ignore.  Life is short.  Make it sweet. It also felt like something Dad would have noticed, possibly adding that he could have made a better block with carved letters rather than painted ones. I think Dad was trying to bring those words to my attention with a block that was not precariously perched, but fell anyway and landed at my feet. 

In the past several months, I’ve experienced the highest of highs and lows that had me crumpling and wondering if I’d ever be upright again. In July, Frankie, my fourth granddaughter and fifth grandchild, arrived. Frankie entered the world, exploding my already full heart. The following month, my sister, Robin, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and a month later, my Dad died. My cousin, sensing the profound grief and sadness I was experiencing, told me to look for the sparkles every day, even when I didn’t believe they could show up. She guaranteed I’d find them. She spoke from experience.

During Dad’s short stay in hospice,  I sat by his bedside for several hours on what would be his last day and let my mind weave its way through countless memories, evoking both tears and laughter. Because the hospice nurse told me Dad could hear me, even though he might not react, I shared my memories out loud. Dad’s hospice room became a confessional for this non-practicing, Presbyterian-raised girl. The door to Dad’s room was open, and during a quiet moment, a woman, whom I didn’t know, entered the room, walked over to me, and gave me a big hug.  Again, I had no idea who the woman was, but I was comforted by her gesture. She told me she hoped it was Ok, and said, “I sat with my Dad a month ago, and I know the feeling.  I recognized the look on your face when I walked by, and it looked like you needed a hug.”  I thanked her, told her she was right, and then she was gone.  It was all so fast that it took me a minute to absorb what had happened and the gift I had been given from a stranger…an unexpected sparkle.

Over the last several months, life has reminded me of what really matters, proving it to me over and over again.. On a day when thankfulness is the centerpiece of the holiday, I thought about the many people who have offered their support when I needed it the most. I’m thankful for the love my children have given me, and for showing me, through grief and sadness, that family and friends are what hold us together in life more than anything else. In our grief, we have found our strength, our resiliency, and, thank goodness, our humor.  A comparison between poorly folded sheets in the linen closet and the flag the two soldiers ceremoniously folded at Dad’s military ceremony became necessary humor.  

I’m thankful for the unexpected reminders or sparkles, that life really is short and that it’s worth doing whatever we can to make it sweet. During a time when life has felt painfully difficult and I’ve wondered what I could be thankful for, I’m finding my Thanksgiving sparkle. 



                                     *****

Thanksgiving, 2025

Less than six weeks after I posted that essay, Emery would be gone. As this Thanksgiving approached, I thought about the words I’d write, and my first thought was to write nothing. How do I find my thankfulness in a year that started with such profound tragedy? Maybe I don’t need to be thankful, at least not this year. And yet…

I read my words from last Thanksgiving.

In the past several months, I’ve experienced the highest of highs and lows that had me crumpling and wondering if I’d ever be upright again.

I didn’t think I could feel worse. I had no idea. How could I know, while seated next to my daughter at her beautiful Thanksgiving table last year, that it would be the last time I’d share Thanksgiving with her? My daughter, the one who sat with me, called me daily and helped me stay upright during a time when all I wanted to do was crawl back into my bed and sleep through the pain, was gone. She had been teaching me a lesson I didn’t want to learn and became my soft spot to land. In the same calming voice I remember using with her when she was upset, she’d tell me in our daily phone calls,

“Put your hand over your heart, and breathe slowly. Inhale. Exhale. I’m with you, Mom.”

And as I did, she’d breathe with me on the phone. The foreshadowing haunts me, as breathing was what she struggled with in the final days before her death. Emery told me she’d be with me, and I wasn’t alone in my grief. And then she wasn’t, and I’m trying to hold onto every one of her words so they aren’t lost in the mire of where I live.

My grief, personified as a skinny woman wearing a Pink Floyd tee-shirt, named Wanda, will be seated next to me this Thanksgiving. She will remind me that she’s only there because love sent her, and also not to get carried away on the cranberries, because, according to Emery, no one likes the side dish. The small dish with the deep red berries will be my nod to the humor Emery and I shared and will grace the table of this Thanksgiving and every Thanksgiving to come.

Thanksgiving (and every day for that matter) is about finding gratitude; words that used to sound cliché to me, but at this time in my life, cliché has become the air that keeps me breathing.

It is the synchronicity of hearing one of Emery’s favorite songs in the most unlikely of places…a Native American singing Brown Eyed Girl in the Albuquerque airport. It is the many stories that will go untold by my Dad, always starting with, “Laur, did I ever tell you about the time, the person, the place….” And even if he had, I’d listen again and smile, because Dad always had one more story to tell. It is the quarter, found on the floor by my bed the morning of Emery’s celebration of life, with a 1990 date, the year Emery was born. I haven’t carried change in years.

It is the extraordinary, found in the ordinary, because Grief, in her oversized Pink Floyd tee-shirt, has taught me the beauty of slowing down. It is in those moments of stillness that the magic lies. And this Thanksgiving, and every day, including the ones I’m not thankful for, that is where my Dad and my Emery reside.

Happy Thanksgiving to anyone who reads these pages.  I hope your day is filled with unexpected sparkles with people you love and cranberries that not everyone likes, but someone made because they love you.

Gratitude. Emery and her Gramps. My daughter and my Dad.

The Boulder Star, 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Named Her Wanda

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

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

“Ok, Wanda, show me what you’ve got.”


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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I continued our conversation.

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

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

I nodded.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

“I know, hon… I know.”