March 2026 – I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

Costa Rica, Spring 2026

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I love me. Because you love me.

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

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

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

Day 30

Because I love me…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because you loved me…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magpies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The child becomes the teacher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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