January 2026 – I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

The last, in a year of firsts.

I hadn’t noted the date until I went to bed. The next day would be the one-year anniversary of Emery’s celebration of life, the bookend to a year of painful firsts. I didn’t know how the anniversary would affect me, but I fell asleep with the reel of that day playing in my mind. My dreams took notice and were hard at work with my thoughts as I wove in and out of dreams about living inside a heart, with firm instructions to never leave, then transitioning to a dream with all my teeth falling out. Strangely, I was Ok with both in the dreams. I’ve since learned that teeth falling out in dreams can have many meanings, but one is ‘recent loss and grief,’ and the heart dream felt predictable. Although it had been a year since Emery’s celebration of life, the length of time feels irrelevant. To my mind and body, it was both a lifetime ago, a year ago, and yesterday, all at the same time.

The date and the memories hit me harder than I expected. I had little energy and spent most of the day sitting in the chair I always called Emery’s chair, since it was her choice when she was at my house. I would sit across from her in my front room on the small couch, covered in beautiful, but scratchy, southwestern-designed wool. Since she died, I have spent many mornings looking at the white slip-covered chair from my position on the red couch, and the emptiness seemed to be getting bigger. Today, I switched places. She had been wise in her selection. Her chair was far more comfortable.

My slow pace felt more intentional than lazy or lethargic. It was as if my speed dial had been turned to the lowest setting; still in operation, but in slow motion. I moved from the chair to the kitchen for food and water (thankfully, my teeth were still in place when I woke up), then back to the comfortable chair where I read pages of a beautiful book given to me by a dear friend, looked at photos and journals, talked with Emery, and wrote. I drank coffee from a mug I bought in Sayulita, Mexico, while on a trip with Emery, who later told me never to get rid of it, as it was her favorite. There were many things in my house that had strict instructions to never get rid of because Emery loved them, and I’ve followed those instructions. The mug is also my favorite or I likely would have given it to her.

There had been a surprise light snow the night before that hadn’t been predicted. It was enough to blanket the yard, but not enough to require shoveling. Emery loved snow, but not the cold winter weather. The dusting of snow felt like a connection to Emery. Last year on this date, it was as cold as I have ever seen it in Boulder, with temperatures in the single digits, and at least a foot of snow on the ground. When I talk to my family and friends about Emery’s celebration of life, the first thing everyone mentions is the sub-zero temps and the deep snow.

It wasn’t cold like that this year, and I decided to get out of the chair and take a walk. I hadn’t planned where I’d walk, but I wasn’t surprised where I ended up. My route took me directly past the Boulder Theatre. I stood in front of it, the marquee no longer with Emery’s name on it, but with the name of four bands I hadn’t heard of. I remembered the exact parking spot where we parked the car a year ago, and what it felt like when I caught sight of the marquee as we crossed the street and walked towards the theatre. Even though we had decided on the words a few days earlier, to see them for the first time, on the marquee of the Boulder Theatre, took my breath away. I sobbed at the sight of Emery’s name in a place I never would have imagined.

EMERY JANE

Our Child of the Wild Blue Yonder

Child of the Wild Blue Yonder was Emery and her Dad’s song. It became the soundtrack to her childhood, often playing in the background as Emery grew up. She didn’t hesitate when choosing her first dance with her Dad at her wedding. I had heard the song hundreds of times, but when I played it recently, the words felt personal, in an auspicious way, as if written for her. These words, in particular, resonated with me.

She’s a child of the wild blue yonder
Flying out of here
She’s a child of the wild blue yonder
Born in an angel’s wing

She can’t help her laughing
She can’t stop your crying days
Sometimes it hurts to be having
To hold on to a love that surely must fly away.

“To hold on to a love that surely must fly away” brought me to a standstill; words that carried a weight I hadn’t felt before.

It was bitterly cold that morning, or I would have stood in front of the marquee longer, my head tilted up to my daughter’s name in a place I never thought I’d see her name, nor in the context I was seeing it. I had to smile at how perfect the location had been, and although Emery was modest, I think she would have loved that her name shared space with The Eagles, The Dave Matthews Band, Johnny Cash, Jerry Garcia, Willy Nelson, Bonnie Raitt, among others, and now Emery Jane.

That evening, at a dinner Emery’s Dad had arranged for the family, several people were talking about how good the food had been. My response was, “There was food?” I didn’t remember food. What I do remember is people bringing me bottles of water and cups of tea. I remember being seated in the front row, before the program, with Grant on one side of me and Thomas on the other, and my daughter-in-laws next to them. I was cold and shaking, and I whispered to Grant that I didn’t think I would be able to speak. I had my words written down, and he told me not to worry that he’d read my words if I couldn’t. I remember my daughter-in-law, Katie, reaching around Grant and gently patting my back. Not seen, but felt, a memory that was more important than a buffet table of food. It reminded me of being at Dad’s military funeral, with just the family three months earlier. As two members of the honor guard folded the flag while a third played taps, I reached over and put my arm around my sister, Robin. Emery’s small hand pushed a Kleenex into the space between Robin and me. She saw me lean into my sister, my shoulders quivering. She knew.

The heart has a lot to say about memories: holding onto the tiniest details while letting go of others, choices that tend to make sense later. I’ve forgotten a lot of the details about Emery’s celebration of life, such as the food, but I have held onto what was important: the touches, the hugs, the compassion.

The day before, we hosted family and friends at my house who had flown in for Emery’s celebration of life. I remember one of my dear friends from the neighborhood where Thomas, Grant, and Emery grew up telling me they would all be with me as I spoke the next day. “Feel our hands on your back as you speak, like this,” he said as he gently put his hand on my back. The next day, I felt Phil’s hand, along with the hands of all my dear friends from the neighborhood, on my back as I spoke, giving me the confidence and a steady voice through their love.

Grant stood next to me as I took the podium, and I felt Emery on the other side. I don’t like public speaking and like it even less when the words are ones I’ve written, but that morning was different. I felt calm, slow, and intentional with my words, feeling them as they left me and moved into the theatre space in front of me. I was comfortable and relaxed, as if Emery was whispering to me, “You’ve got this, Mom. I’m so proud of you.” I’ve never felt like that before when reading my writing in front of a group, but I’ve also not read words that had such deep significance. Although there were hundreds of people in front of me, I spoke to one person. My last gift to my girl.

I ended my day by taking a bath. I had bath salts from a collection of Emery’s things from her bathroom that I used sparingly, as I don’t want to use them up. As I lay in the bathtub, I looked up at the photo Emery gave me for Christmas two years ago. It was two sets of legs, from the knees down, submerged in pale, blue-green water. One of the sets of legs was smaller, and Emery told me it reminded her of us, mother and daughter, our legs dangling in a swimming pool. I told her a few days later that it was hanging on the wall in front of my bathtub so I could enjoy it every time I took a bath. She told me she couldn’t wait to see it in person.

That in-person never happened. A small, forgotten gesture that loomed large while I looked at the four legs, dangling in the water. As I looked deeper into the photograph, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before, as it was blurred by the water. The smaller hand reached out to the larger, both dangling just below the surface of the water. A gesture that touched me, and I wanted to reach out and grab that small hand with reassurance that everything would be Ok, but I couldn’t.

Unexpected Gifts

I’ve written a lot about the pain that grief has brought into my life since Emery’s death, but that is only one side of the story. Grief, whom I have personified into a skinny woman in a Pink Floyd T-shirt named Wanda (because I tend to name things that stick around in my life), has also brought unexpected gifts. My sons and I have spoken often about grief, a subject we have come to understand on a much deeper and personal level this year. We all agree that grief has changed who we are at our core and deepened our connections in life. We are moving at a slower pace, with far more awareness, and are discerning in where we put our energy. This came to light for me while I was in a shop in Kansas City a few days before Christmas with my sister, Susan. We had just been to a local bookstore, and while walking to my car, we passed the boutique where Emery often shopped when she was in Kansas City. Because I’m now drawn to anything that was in Emery’s history, I wanted to go in. A display of a familiar perfume caught my eye, and while I was looking at the small bottles, a woman who worked there asked if she could help me find something.

I told her yes, and asked if they carried a particular scent I liked in the body lotion. A year ago, I hadn’t heard of Maison 4, but I easily recognized the scent as it was what Emery wore. After she died, two of her friends and I cleaned out her bathroom drawers, a task that was both an honor and one of the most difficult, given its intimacy. I took home several items that day, my favorites being the bottles of Emery’s scent and I’ve rolled it onto my wrist every morning since. The sales woman said she would check the storeroom to see if they had what I was looking for. While she was gone, I wandered around the shop, envisioning Emery pulling things out for me to try on. I’d often respond with a hard no, but she’d insist, adding that trying something totally unexpected would be fun, and I should at least give it a try. She was usually right. Emery was fun to shop with, given her ongoing motivation to push me out of my comfort zone.

When the woman returned, she had two bottles of the body lotion and said,
“I have no idea who told me about this scent, but I just love it!”
I hesitated. It was a moment that felt like a tap on the shoulder, and rather than move through it, I stopped. I decided to tell her my story. That doesn’t always happen, but she was kind, and it felt right.
“I love it too. My daughter wore the scent.”
She smiled while she put my items on the counter.
“So your daughter has good taste!”
“Yes, she did. She had very good taste.” I paused, then continued.

“She died last January, and I learned about the scent when I went through her things. Although I didn’t know the name, I was familiar with it because it was her scent.” I didn’t feel done. I added, “She died from complications from the flu and pneumonia. She was 34, with two young children.”

It’s not easy to say those words, and I know it’s not easy for people to hear them. I felt like I had sucked the oxygen out of the small store, knowing that she wouldn’t know how to respond, because who would? She did a deep inhale, shook her head, and said,
“I don’t know what to say. I’m so terribly sorry.”
I nodded and thanked her.

As I was getting ready to pay, I added another bottle of the lotion to the collection on the counter. She asked me if I was in the computer, and I told her I didn’t think so, but she could check. I gave her my name, but she didn’t find me in their system. Then, she said something I didn’t expect.
“What was your daughter’s name?”
“Emery Golson.” She looked at the screen in front of her and smiled, “Well, she’s made 26 purchases here!”

I had to laugh. 26 purchases, and my daughter lived in another state. Maybe that included online shopping. Then she said, “She had 80 points, and I’d like to give them to you. It’s worth $80.” I was touched by her gesture and told her I’d be honored to have my daughter’s points. Susan, who was standing next to me, said, “I think Emery just gave you a Christmas gift.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way, but she was right, making my purchase even more special. I ended up giving one of the bottles of lotion to a dear friend of Emery’s, and when she thanked me, I told her the story and said it was from Emery. She was as touched as I had been that day in the store.

As I was getting ready to leave, the woman helping me (I’m sorry that I never got her name, as she was someone I won’t forget) told me that sharing my story had made her day, and she was so happy to be able to offer what she did in response to my loss and grief. And that made my day.

Sometimes you just know. It would have been just as easy not mention how I came to love the scent or that it was from my daughter who had recently passed. I thought about what my sons and I had talked about so often, about how grief had us all slowing down, living in the moment, and making unlikely connections in the process. Unexpected kindness had come with a gift I hadn’t expected because of a nudge for me to share Emery’s story.

We celebrated Christmas as a family on the 23rd of December in Kansas City, and since I didn’t have plans, I decided to drive back to Boulder on Christmas. It was the first Christmas Day that I hadn’t been with family, and driving across Kansas was a strange way to spend the day, but it felt right. The good news was that there was little to no traffic, but the bad news was that my food and coffee options were relegated to what the gas stations had to offer.

Midway through Kansas, the fog began to roll in, reducing visibility to less than a car length. My normally boring drive from Boulder to Kansas City, which I had driven countless times, had been bookended with high winds on one end and thick fog on the other. Unable to see the car in front of me, my car automatically braked to maintain the distance. My arm instinctively reached out to protect my invisible shotgun passenger, a reflex every mother or person around children understands. And in those few seconds, I thought back to the many drives Emery and I had made across Kansas, Colorado, and New Mexico, with me in the driver’s seat, and Emery seated shotgun. In time, a car seat and two years later, another would be added to our trips. Maybe it was the fog, or maybe it was the scent of Maison 4 that filled my car, or perhaps my instinct to protect my passenger with the sudden braking, but I felt like Emery was with me.

Her presence in the car, in her usual seat, was strong. It had been a very difficult and sad Christmas season for me, ending with a foggy drive west on Christmas Day, and I needed her more than ever. And with the scent of her perfume that she gifted me in the store, she showed up.

2025 to 2026

Finally, the calendar page turned. I was ready to leave 2025 behind, but sadly, the pain and grief that began in January 2025 are tagging along. Social media is reminding me that now is the time to start anew, set my goals for the coming year, and let go of what didn’t work for me in 2025. I wish it were that simple. The pain of my daughter’s death wasn’t gone with the turning of a calendar page, nor was it something I could let go of. It will go with me into 2026, 2027, and 20-forever.

I spent the New Year’s holiday with someone whom I’ve called my 3rd sister since I was barely old enough to drive, and now, over 5 1/2 decades later, I still do. Susie is comfort for me, and comfort was what I needed. She and her husband, Michel, were my soft spot to land as 2025 rolled over into 2026, while we dined on lobster tails and sipped champagne at midnight.
As we were saying our goodbyes at the curb at the Providence, Rhode Island, airport, Susie said, “You have peanut butter on your scarf.” “Yeah, I know. It’s like a big bib.” That kind of friendship. That kind of comfort. Susie knows me well. I rearranged the scarf so the peanut butter didn’t show.
When I checked in, the woman behind the counter asked, “Is Portland your final destination?” “Yes.” “But you live in Colorado?” I had just given her my driver’s license. “Yes.” “OK. I just wanted to confirm, as I didn’t want you to end up somewhere you hadn’t planned on today.” I appreciated her efficiency. Yes, I was leaving Providence, Rhode Island, for Portland, Oregon, with a layover in Atlanta, but I live in Colorado. It was my 28th flight in what has become my year of escape. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like I live in Colorado despite what my driver’s license says.

As I waited at the gate, my mind wouldn’t leave me alone. It was January 2nd, 2026, but I kept returning to January 2nd, 2025, as I made time adjustments from East Coast to Mountain time. Miles and I were with Emery in the ICU of Foothills Hospital in Boulder. We hadn’t left her side since her arrival the evening before. The oxygen machine was loud, and the monitors beeped, while her nurse took note of the numbers. Fear had started to settle in. We were both shivering, I’m guessing because we were in shock, and neither of us had taken off our coats all night. The only time I had slipped out of her room was to call my two sons and my sisters; difficult calls to make, as there was little positive I could tell them. When I returned to the room, she was intubated and sedated. My Dad, at age 95, had been intubated and lived another 18 months afterwards. I reminded Miles about Dad and held onto that historic thread of hope. I wouldn’t let myself go to the part where I might not see her conscious again. Ever.

Time moved forward and backward. It’s 2025. The doctors are looking for an open bed in Denver because Emery needs an ECMO procedure. I had never heard of ECMO, but thankfully didn’t Google it. They were getting the helicopter ready and said it would take longer than I had thought. Did they say one hour, or was it two? I brought the time back to Eastern time, two hours later, by which time the helicopter had left. It felt easier. I drink bad coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts while I wait at gate 16.

It’s 10:40 mountain time, still January 2nd, and I’m driving to St. Joseph Hospital in Denver, where Emery was being transported. I’m not sure how safe it was for me to drive, as I’m guessing I was in shock, but safety is not what comes to mind in an emergency. You react. You go. You let momentum and fear move you forward with little regard to safety. I watched overhead as I drove down I-25 for the helicopter carrying my daughter. I wasn’t sure whether seeing it would offer comfort or fear. I didn’t see it or hear it. I wondered whether Emery had ever been in a helicopter, but didn’t think she had. She will have a good story to tell, I thought. I hoped.

My wait at the gate has now moved to Atlanta, where I wait for my flight to Portland while keeping an eye out for my family, who, ironically and magically, were on the same flight to Portland, on their return from Florida. I watched two young children enthusiastically play tag around the banks of chairs, filled with passengers. The passengers were less than enthused with their game, but I enjoyed the distraction. When my granddaughters, ages 6 and 3, saw me sitting at their gate, it made for a lot of confusion and excitement. The small comforts bring the biggest joy these days.

I’m still escaping, but flying doesn’t offer the same ease that a car trip does for me, as the airlines control my schedule, not me. Still, there is comfort in the movement from one location to another, never landing long in any one place. I like the distraction. I’m afraid to stop anywhere for too long. Maybe I’m trying to outrun the pain. The hands of the clock. The pages of the calendar. They continually nudge me… as if I could ever forget…

I boarded the plane, while trying to find balance between then and now, my emotions taking center stage on my face. The flight attendant made eye contact with me and tilted her head slightly in that I’m-so sorry kind of way. I had wondered, while sitting at gate 10, how many people waiting had lost someone they loved in the past year. How many of them had lost a child? Grief shows up in people’s eyes, even without the tears. It looks different than sadness… deeper, more rooted, and with a sense of permanence.

During the last hour of the five-hour flight, I put on my headphones and listened to Layla on repeat because I love the song’s crescendo of emotion, and although I couldn’t stop crying, it felt like what I needed.

Wrapped up in my shawl, part warmth, part snuggly, I sobbed in the dark cabin of the plane as if experiencing the trauma for the first time. There is remembering, and then there is reliving when your body goes through the physicality of experiencing the trauma, as if for the first time. I was reliving. I was back in 2025, on January 2nd, at the Denver Hyatt, waiting for my boys, who were flying in from LA and Portland. I was exhausted, having not slept for over 48 hours, but couldn’t sleep as I was so anxious to see them, to hug them, and have them hug me. I felt like I was losing Emery and couldn’t lose her alone. We had hope. We had to have hope, but I think Thomas and Grant were also trying to tamp down the fear of what might happen. I was drowning and trying hard to keep my head above water, where I could breathe. I heard the doctor’s discouraging update on Emery’s condition, his words punctuated with “but she’s young…”. And that is where I stayed… but she’s young…for as long as I could. I wondered how many years it would be before the events from January 2nd to January 4th became memories I could think about without having to relive them. Ever?

I looked out the airplane window and watched the glow of the full moon hanging in the sky as if it had been left behind. It brought back the memory of Emery telling me it made her happy that I would stop to take in the moon before anything else when I walked outside. I felt like the full moon through my small airplane window was her nudge to me to let the timelines go, because, regardless of where I was, 11:38 a.m. Mountain Time on January 4th would still come. A full moon in a dark sky at 30,000 feet wouldn’t. Both of my sons were on flights that evening—one to Portland with his family and me, and one to LA with his family. I don’t know if they looked out their airplane windows and saw what I saw, but we were all in the same dark sky, save for the glow of the full moon.

I watched the moon, as I always do, and felt Emery’s smile with my reaction to it, as she always did.

365 Days

One year. 365 days. Twelve months of not feeling well, emotionally or physically. Twelve months of missing my girl. On Emery’s birthday, a friend, who has gone before me on this horrific journey, told me, “The scab will continue to get thicker over your heart. Anything can pick at it…important events, special days, a memory. And one day, you will be able to take really deep breaths and not feel the stabbing pain. I promise. It gets better. Not ever gone, but livable.” I’m not to the better, but livable part yet, and I don’t think my scab has formed. Another friend who speaks from experience told me, “A patch will appear in time. It will be careworn from sorrow, love, and loss, but in time, it will be there.” I hold these words close to my heart.

I’ve read or listened to countless books on grief, taking what I needed and leaving the rest. I realized that in the essays that I’ve written for the past year, I’m writing my own manual of grief while my care-worn patch of healing is being woven, one thread, one word, one emotion at a time. I’ve also learned that my grief is not a tunnel that I will make my way through, with solace waiting for me on the other side. Instead, it’s a cave. Sometimes light comes into the opening, and other times it’s dark. I’m learning to navigate in the dark, but it’s a difficult, unsure journey. Emery’s Dad, Charlie, and I were with her for her first breath and 34 years later, for her last, witnesses to the entirety of her life journey and its duality of joy and sorrow, beginning and end. It’s the circle of life, with the beginning touching the end, yet nothing about it feels complete or connected to me.

My New Year’s tradition of writing down my highs and lows of the past year, followed by my goals and dreams for the following year, didn’t happen. My journal, with a pen poised next to it in anticipation, remained on my desk until mid-summer, the pages still blank. I finally closed it in July and tucked it in a drawer. Instead of year-end journaling, I drove to my daughter’s house in a panic after my son-in-law, Miles, called to say 911 had been called. Life stopped. Calendar pages weren’t turned. December became February. We wanted to skip January, and in many ways we did, as we huddled together as a family in a rental house in Boulder, blocks from my house. My tears woke me up in the middle of the night in that rental house, with my desperate need to hug Emery, because we always hugged before we parted. During my waking hours, which seemed few, I tried to find the words I would say at my daughter’s celebration of life, insisting to my sons that I couldn’t do it, and yet I did.

I am still here, but it’s hard to find me some days. In the early days at the rental house, I often woke up with my cashmere scarf tangled in my arms, like a child’s blankie. I didn’t go to bed with it, but somehow I would find it in the night. My body and soul knew what I needed and were helping me with a gray cashmere shawl that offered the same kind of comfort as a child’s stuffed animal.

There is a hole in the fabric of my life… and maybe, as my friend told me, a patch will form, but the hole will always be there. I became a different person on January 4th. My life has been split into the biggest before and after I have ever known, and I’m trying to figure out who I am in this after part, as there are many days when I don’t recognize myself.

Emery became my teacher, roommate, and confidant after my divorce. The child became the teacher. She taught me to believe in myself, to stay in the moment, to find joy in the mundane, and to see the world with an open heart and mind. So much of me is better because of Emery, and so much of me is lost with her death. Life hides in landmines. It’s relentless and tiring, yet beautiful in the sparkles that love has left in its wake.

A mother saying a final goodbye to her child is not what we are ever meant to do, and yet I’ve been saying goodbye for a year. Emery and I often talked about what my later years would look like. She reassured me that she would keep my chin whisker-free and my clothes and hair as hip as I’d allow, most likely, hipper. We didn’t know where that “ending place” would be, but we always knew we’d be close to each other, because I was her mother, and she wanted to take care of me. Emery got to spend her entire life with me. I wish I could say the same of her, but I spared her the pain of saying goodbye to me. It was my last gift to my daughter.

I don’t know if my grief will become easier to carry with the strength I develop in time, or if it will be something I will continually need to set down on days when I feel incapable of doing much more than getting dressed and feeding myself, sometimes neither being done very well. But I know what Emery would tell me… be gentle with yourself, Mom. And so I am. Or I’m trying. Wrapped in the memories that began with a positive pregnancy test to last January 4th, I continue to look for the light in the cave, trying my best to follow her words…be gentle with yourself, Mom. She is everywhere, and she’s nowhere.

My drives from Boulder to Kansas City and back for Christmas this year were challenging, with high winds on the way there and dense fog on the way home. I remembered telling Emery, who was a timid driver when she left for college, to watch for car lights ahead of her and follow them, as the light would keep her on her path. I didn’t realize until driving back to Boulder, with fog so dense I couldn’t see the lights in front of me, that I was trying to do just as I had instructed Emery… follow the lights, as they will keep you on the path. I slowed to a crawl and eventually saw car lights ahead that I followed. I didn’t rush. I didn’t panic. I just kept searching until I found something to follow. I’m no longer in my car, but I’m still searching for a light to follow. Something that will keep me on the path.

I miss you, my darling girl, and this journey I’ve been forced to endure is my hardest one yet. I will continue to search for the strength you saw in me. My deep grief, whom I’ve named Wanda, is my love for you, Emery, with no place to go. I look for you everywhere, and some days, when I need you the most, you’re a rainbow in the sky, a favorite song of yours playing unexpectedly, or a photo of you popping up on my phone. You were even a heart-shaped flock of birds flying overhead immediately after I blew out the candle on my 70th birthday cake at Lake Tahoe with your two brothers. You are everywhere and nowhere.

When Emery was 3, I thought I had lost her. It is a story I’ve told very few, perhaps because of the shame I felt as a mother almost losing her child. We had been shopping at the mall, and as I was paying, I moved towards a nearby rack of clothing next to me as something caught my eye. Emery must have looked up at that very moment, didn’t see me, and panicked. In an instant, she was gone. I told the store manager in a panic, and the employees quickly searched the dressing rooms, then closed the store and made the most dreaded announcement any mother could ever hear…We have a lost child. We pulled the clothing to the side on the carousels, looking for hiding spots she may have found, but didn’t see her. I was overwhelmed with panic and fear, barely able to breathe, while trying to think of what I was supposed to do next.

I stepped outside the store, thinking maybe she had wandered into the mall, and saw a woman holding Emery’s hand walking towards the store. I ran to her, picked her up, held her close to me, and sobbed. The woman, who happened to be a kindergarten teacher, said she saw Emery walking by herself. When she asked her where she was going, Emery told her she was looking for her Mom. The woman asked Emery where they had been shopping, and Emery responded confidently, “The Gap.” Thankfully, my girl knew her stores. I have never felt so afraid or so relieved to be reunited.

I often dream I’m searching for Emery. A kind woman holding her hand does not bring her to me, nor do I check the dressing rooms or the clothes carousels, but I still search. My mind and my heart, even after a year, can’t understand how she could be here one day, then gone forever.

Emery’s still gone. I’m still here.