Category: Grief

Not long ago, or maybe long ago, I’m not sure, as time is distorted to me now, I noticed large bins of pumpkins flanking the doors of my grocery store. I was confused. Had the mums already come and gone because they always come before the pumpkins, don’t they? I didn’t buy any, not even the small ones that I put in a wooden bowl on my kitchen table. I’m not sure why. Maybe the same reason I didn’t buy the mums, or why I didn’t purchase bedding plants this spring. It felt like too much work. Too much work for someone who, in previous years, filled large patio pots with flowers and ornamental grasses, then covered them once or twice in the early spring to protect them from the snow, because even after living in Boulder for six years, I still can’t seem to remember that Boulder still gets snow into April and sometimes May. Those same large pots are filled with the dead grasses and plants from last year, along with clumps of sedum from a nearby plant, whose seeds were graciously carried by the wind, adding a bit of color to the tangle of brown.

I have a small backyard landscaped with deep beds lining the perimeter and a flagstone path that cuts through the grass to a gate in the fence leading to the alley. It has been a source of pride and joy, and a lot of work that never felt like work to me.

Mid-summer, in 2024, I was sitting on my patio reading. The new renter to the guest house next door was on his porch talking on the phone. I could hear him, but not see him, as the branches of my peach tree kept me hidden. The guest house is above a garage, so he was looking down on my yard.
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“I mean, seriously, you should see this yard and all the flowers in bloom. It’s incredible!”

It took me a minute to realize he was talking about my yard. I tucked in deeper into the branches of the tree to remain hidden and craned my head as close as I could get to the fence that separated our yards to hear more. I smiled with pride because he was right. My yard was incredible.

That renter is long gone and has been replaced by someone else, whom I haven’t overheard telling someone on the phone how beautiful my garden is. My garden isn’t beautiful this year. It’s overgrown and looks like the person who lives there has been away a lot because she has, and when she’s home, she doesn’t want to garden. She’s still trying to understand why.

I’ve not weeded or cut back my flowers, which are in the “leap” year of the “sleep, creep, leap” growth cycle, and leap they did. Small wild geranium plants that hugged the edge of my patio have formed knee-high mounds, covering the small plants planted next to them. I used to love gardening, but right now, in this time of my life, I don’t. Putting my hands in the dirt was one of the ways I tended to my soul. Now, in a year that my soul feels like it’s either on life support or cowering from exposure, I need to garden, but I can’t, and I don’t know why, except that gardening makes me sad. The only time I spend in my garden is to walk down the flagstone path, through my gate, and into the alley to take out my trash and after a season of doing nothing, all I see is work.

Before I reworked my backyard in 2021 and added a patio with a pergola, Emery and I would drag chairs to sit under the redbud tree. It was 2020. We sat six feet apart and wore masks. Or at least we tried to wear masks, but they never lasted long because we needed to see each other’s smiles. Emery usually had baby Muna on her lap, my 3rd grandchild, whom I couldn’t hold because of what we were still calling the “coronavirus.” Even at six feet apart, our conversation felt intimate, like we were curled next to each other on the couch. We were struggling with the isolation due to the virus, and Emery was overly cautious with me because most of the ones who were dying were in my age range.

I told her about my plans for the backyard — a patio with a pergola, and a table with a lot of chairs to accommodate gatherings of friends and family. She told me to skip the table, get more comfy chairs, and we could eat from our laps. We didn’t always agree. The following year, on Mother’s Day, my children, their spouses, and their children sat around my table under the pergola, enjoying a beautiful brunch. We had waited a long time to be together, and even though we were still under the threat of COVID, we made it work.

I wonder, when do memories just become memories and not triggers to a loss that still makes no sense and still leaves the stabbing pain that it did almost eleven months ago? Or does that ever happen? I wonder when I’ll be able to open the door to my back porch and not think of the morning of March 24th when the city of Boulder issued a stay-at-home order. I got a text from Emery saying she had left something on my back steps. She had left a small box comfort from local businesses near me, including teas and tinctures to help support my immune system and lungs. We worried about each other. We missed each other.

I recently rewatched The Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life. And yes, at this point, it was like watching Steel Magnolias again. It brought back memories of Emery and me cozied up on my tooled-leather couch in Leawood, Kansas — the same couch that Emery had me write a contract for, which we both signed, stating that I would give it to her, and no one else, if I ever decided to part with it. I tucked it under the cushion for safekeeping. Three years later, when I moved to Boulder, I parted with the couch, but not before I checked with Emery, who said she didn’t have room for it. I watched two men carry it out of my house during my estate sale, remembering the contract hidden under the cushion, a buried treasure that likely shared space with hair ties, knitting stitch markers, and an assortment of coins. We sat on that couch and ate potato chips, French onion dip, store-bought cookies, and drank red wine. It felt recent, yet so long ago. Grief likes to get in there with memories and really messes things up when it comes to time. How was that nine years ago? How was it almost eleven months ago that Emery died? I often forget what month it is or even what season, even though the leaves are changing to oranges and reds in Boulder.

On a recent drive to the airport, I asked my driver (not concerned Kevin, whom I would meet on my ride home) what the large building project was that we had driven by. He told me it was high-density housing for CU students, then went in for a deeper explanation than I wanted to hear. I regretted asking the question. I started to ask him, simply out of politeness and boredom, if the students had returned to school yet. I caught myself. It was the middle of October.

Time is confusing and ever-changing. Two and a half days in January were longer than the nine and a half months that have followed. Memories wrapped in grief have taken over my calendar. Pumpkins replaced chrysanthemums that replaced bedding plants, and it still feels like I should be watching for March tulips to emerge from the soil. This grieving business is exhausting, yet oddly beautiful because of the love it represents. It’s like glitter. You think you’ve gotten it all cleaned up, then the sun reveals a sparkle, and you realize it will never be all cleaned up because it will never be gone.

Losing Emery has rearranged me—what I loved, where I found comfort, and the calendar of my life.

I forgot that I love to garden and that it has been healing for me in the past. Will I remember that I love decorating for Christmas when I see the greens flanking the doorway of my grocery store? Or will I walk into the store, whispering next year when I pass them, their scent following me into the produce section?

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.”

I hired a car for my ride home from the airport after my recent trip to Costa Rica.  Lately, I’ve been giving myself the gift of taking the easy option because anything else feels too complex, and I don’t seem to be able to do complex things right now.  I was returning from a week in Costa Rica with my son-in-law, Miles, and grandchildren, Arlo and Muna, who moved there in August.  They live in the small town of Nosara, where they had spent some time as a family in previous years.  It had been Emery and Miles’ dream to live there for a year, giving the kids a multicultural and bilingual life.  After Emery died, Miles felt like it would be an easier place to heal than Boulder, where the presence of Emery’s absence was overwhelming.  After seeing their life there, I agreed even more with his decision.  It was a special week,  ending with Muna’s 6th birthday on my last day.  

There have been many difficult firsts during my family’s initial year since Emery’s death, including the grandchildren’s birthdays.  Muna’s birthday celebration, with a group of new friends who came to the house for a party, was bittersweet.  I was thrilled to see her with girls she has already designated as her “best friends,”  and sad that Emery wasn’t there to witness it with Miles and I. Emery would be proud of Arlo and Muna and the way they’ve navigated not only a new place to live, but also a new school, new friends and a new language, all on the heels of losing their Mama. 

The first are hard, and there have been far more than I anticipated, but with each one, I’m letting myself feel the pain while leaning into my strength. I am strong.  I am also fragile, a piece of glass that withstands strong winds and rain but is easily shattered by a small rock or pebble.  Strength doesn’t always appear stoic.  I’m often on the verge of tears.  

As I walked down the jetway to the airplane, my verge of tears let go and started flowing down my cheeks. It didn’t surprise me, as it’s happened on almost all of the flights I’ve been on since January 4th.  It was, however, the first time I gave it any thought.  Emery loved to travel, and we often traveled together, starting when she was a little girl, making trips to either coast to visit my sisters.  After every flight, I’d ask her to find our way to the baggage claim, and although she couldn’t read yet, she always got us there.  I wanted to give Emery confidence when it came to travel. I was helping her grow her wings and with those wings, I was also setting myself up for difficult goodbyes later.  I missed traveling with Emery.  My tears on that jetway, on all of the jetways, held meaning and weight.

When Emery was a senior in high school, she had enough credits to graduate a semester early and told me she wanted to spend the time traveling…with me. She suggested Peru because I spoke Spanish and she wanted to see Machu Picchu.  I had done well with her wings. 

We volunteered in a poor district of Lima for a month, then were tourists for two weeks.  The dye had been cast.  My girl loved travel.  And now, 17 years after our initial trip to Peru, Emery’s children are experiencing the excitement and wonder of living in a different country, while embracing a new culture and learning Spanish.  Arlo and Muna carry their Mama’s spirit with them. 

I feel Emery when I travel.  It makes me sad and smile at the same time — grateful for the many times we boarded flights together to familiar places to see people we knew,  or to the unknown.  If she wasn’t with me when I traveled to new places, she was always my first text.  

You’d love it here!  It’s amazing, beautiful, exotic, and you have to put it on your list!  We’ll go together! 

And her responses were always a resounding, “YES!”

With the echoes of goodbye hugs that I could still feel several hours later, the sadness spilled over into my car ride home.  The driver, Kevin, whom I had had a few times before, asked me about Costa Rica.  Kevin is a talker who has something to say about everything, and I remembered that the minute I got into his car.  I was polite, but not talkative.  He asked if I was visiting friends in Costa Rica, and I told him, No, my grandchildren.

Before I could add “and my son-in-law, he said,

“Would that be your son and daughter-in-law or daughter and son-in-law’s kids?”

Kevin wasn’t going to give me a break. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go there or not, but the next sentence out of my mouth was,  “My daughter and son-in-law’s children, but my daughter passed away in January from complications from the flu, so just my son-in-law and two grandchildren.”  

There was both anxiety and relief in the telling.  I redirected my attention to the pink sky and the slowly dropping sun across the vast open fields.  The drive from the airport to Boulder is pretty, but it usually goes unnoticed for me as thoughts of what I need to do once home take precedence.   Today, there was only a pink sky from a car window and a driver who liked to talk.

As expected, the car went silent after my comment, but the silence remained a bit longer than I was used to.  Finally, Kevin responded,

 “I’m sorry, but that really got to me.  I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you.  It’s still hard for me to understand.”

There was another long pause, at which point I figured he’d redirect the conversation to how bad the dating scene is in Denver for gays or how much he loves his job, or the weather.  People in Colorado actually talk about the weather as much, if not more, than midwesterners.  But instead, he said,

“Can you tell me about her? Starting with her name?”

“Emery.  And yes, I can.”

Can you tell me about her?  

They were six of the kindest words I’ve heard since January 4th.  And so I did.  And he listened. I told him she was kind, curious, and a lover of herbs and flowers. She was self-taught in flower stamping and dying and made beautiful scarves, printed from the cosmos she grew in her garden.   I told her she was funny and would make a face that was as funny as the words that followed.  I told him my grandson does the same thing. I told him what a good mother she was to Arlo and Muna and that they were her greatest joy in life.  I told him that at age five, she wondered why our new puppy’s doctor was a woman and not a dog. I told him she was my baby and had two older brothers.  I told him I missed her.  And he listened.

Then, with the energy of having just made a realization, he said, “Wait, I remember now! Emery was the one who found your house in Boulder when you were living in another city and told you to buy it.  She walked you through the house on a FaceTime call, and you bought it!  Sight unseen!”

I couldn’t believe he remembered that story, as I had only had him drive me a few times before, and I didn’t remember sharing it.  It seems that Kevin was not only a talker, but a listener.

“You have a good memory, Kevin.”

“No, you are a good storyteller.  That’s why I remember.”

A smile, through my tears.  He passed a Kleenex back to me.

I travel often and have had people pick me up from the airport, taken shared-ride vans home, driven myself a few times, and hired a car. None of the trips were memorable.  This one was.

I was grateful for the darkness that had descended upon the car, allowing me to cocoon in my grief for the rest of the ride home, when Kevin, for the first time, was also quiet. When we got to my house, he hesitated before getting out of the car to get my suitcase.

“Can I ask you for some advice?”

“Of course.”

“One of my best friends from my childhood lost their sister to cancer a few years ago. I was at a rough time in my life, and meant to reach out but didn’t.  I found him on social media and would like to reach out, but is it too late?  Would it be upsetting or comforting?”

“Comforting.  It would be comforting.  One thing I’ve learned about grief is that there are no timelines.”

He didn’t respond, but got out of the car and retrieved my suitcase.

I’ve had moments in this process of grief that feel like time has stopped to allow me to grasp the depth of the moment more fully.  This was one of those moments.  I’m still trying to grasp the enormity of what is usually a routine drive from the airport to my house.  

Before I entered my house, Kevin said,

“I’m going to send him a message tonight.  Thank you.  And thank you for sharing your story.”

I learned today that Kevin, the talker and also the listener, is a kind, genuine soul.  He left me with words I’ll never forget.

Can you tell me about her?

Emery’s first steps, on her first birthday.

Emery knew immediately that it was the birthday cake she wanted when she saw it in the bakery case.  I suggested the cake with the teddy bear on it, because it seemed more appropriate, but it wasn’t what she wanted. She was almost four. She wanted the pink baby bootie cake that would likely be served at a baby shower.  

I was having coffee with my friend, Donna, and her almost four-year-old son, James, when Emery spotted the cake.  I loved her enthusiasm, but told her it was too early to buy the cake, as her birthday wasn’t for a few weeks.  I figured she’d forget about the cake or it would be gone by our next visit. I should have known better. The next time we were in the coffee shop/bakery,  the pastel pink cake was still there, along with Emery’s enthusiasm. The third time we saw the cake, we ordered one. 

“ The teddy bear cake sure is cute… are you sure about the baby bootie cake?” I asked Emery. 

She looked at me as if I hadn’t been listening to her. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t going to be swayed by my suggestions.  A few days later, on her birthday,  Emery blew out four candles on a pastel pink baby bootie cake.

During a time when I’m holding on so tightly to every memory that comes to mind because forgetting feels like losing more of Emery, I’m grateful for the baby bootie cake and not the teddy bear cake, because it was a cake that gave me a story and a memory.

Memories of Emery (and yes, I’ve noted the rhyming aspect and it means even more to me now) hold so much more weight than they used to, and insignificant details loom large to keep me up at night.   Who came to the party at our house when she was six? Or was it seven? And what was the name of the tall girl with long hair who felt bad because she didn’t bring a gift to that party?  The girl whose mom always looked tired and gave the toddler sister small tins of Vienna sausages for a snack. It doesn’t matter, yet it matters so very much.  Did Emery prefer chocolate cake over vanilla cake?  I feel like a part of her is fading away if I can’t remember. Then again, if I could text her, she likely wouldn’t remember either, except the Vienna sausages, which always made us laugh. 

I remember Emery’s first birthday because it was also the day she took her first steps.  Not steps with me seated on the floor with outstretched arms, but rather, steps across the kitchen countertop after she climbed out of her high chair (I no longer buckled her in, third child and all).  I don’t remember her blowing out a candle or me singing to her, but I do remember it was just the two of us in the kitchen.  Charlie was out of town, and the boys were at a friend’s house. I gave her a cupcake, and we had our own little party. Even though there would be a family gathering that weekend, I couldn’t let her actual day go by without some acknowledgement.

I  remember chocolate on her face as she made her way out of the high chair, pulled herself onto the countertop, and took her first steps. I also remember the moment when I grabbed my camera, without taking my eyes off of her, to record the moment. It may not have been wise, but who would have believed me had I not obtained the evidence? I caught a glimpse of the child Emery was becoming…fearless, curious, and determined. 

Age 13. After much persuasion, I caved and said yes to a slumber party for 13, because it has to be 13 girls for my 13th birthday party, Mom!   We converted the basement into one big sleeping area with blow-up beds, sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows.  It was worth every sleepless moment for the many stories that followed.

Age 16.  Emery had a Black and White party with three other friends whose birthdays lined up consecutively on the calendar.  The guests wore black and white.  I had a cake made with all four of the birthday kids’ photographs in icing on the top. Emery thought it was fancy.  I had to agree.

Age 20.  I wasn’t in the country, but I sent my birthday wishes to Emery from the Himalayan Mountains while on my trek in Nepal with my sister, Susan. Susan and I were sitting outside our hut early in the morning in our pajamas, with our morning coffee in the foothills of the Annapurna Range, sending Emery happy birthday wishes in a phone call. Emery thanked me for the call and loved that I was calling her from the other side of the world, then reminded me that her birthday wasn’t until the next day.  I was a day early due to the time change. 

Age 21:

(Excerpt from a letter I gave Emery on her birthday)

Before I left the hospital to give birth to you, your brothers, ages 3 and 4 1/2, told me not to bring home another brother, and if I had a boy, to leave him at the hospital.  They only wanted to be brothers to a little sister!

You brought a balance of feminine energy into a house that was overloaded with testosterone and gave your brothers the gift of growing up with a little sister.  You’ve become my travel buddy, my confidant, my excellent listener, and at times, my memory.  My life is richer, deeper, and more meaningful with you in it.  Oct. 1, 1990, was one of the happiest days of my life, and now, 21 years later, I’m honored to celebrate that magical day with you.

We celebrated Emery’s 21st birthday with a family dinner at The Melting Pot because Emery had always wanted to go there.  Afterwards, she told me it was way too much cheese for anyone to ingest.  I agreed.

Age 26.  I was walking the Camino with Susan on Emery’s birthday.  If it looks like there was a pattern with me being out of town or out of the country, you’re correct.  Late September to early October was a good time for travel as it coincided with the many walking vacations Susan and I took.  I felt terrible celebrating so many of Emery’s birthdays after the fact, but she was always very supportive of my trips.  I wasn’t sure what to buy her for her 26th birthday, as shops were scarce along the Camino, but I came up with an idea while walking.  I made a video with happy birthday wishes from both friends I had met and strangers I approached on the Camino.  The wishes were in Spanish, French, and English, most with Australian accents.  It was one of the best gifts I ever gave her.  She agreed.

Age 30. I was in town for Emery’s 30th, but due to Covid, we weren’t together, so my words were my gift to her.

October 2, 2020

“I slowed down to an almost stop with you, Emery, and it was deliciously wonderful to live life at the pace and the viewpoint of a little girl who twirled her way through life with a smile on her face and a song in her heart.  Your deep-rooted compassion for others, both two-legged and four-legged, touched me deeply when you were a child and still does today.  Thirty years ago, when Dr. Thomas handed you to me, my life felt complete.  I had my girl. 

Hold on to the wonder you found so early in life as you dance your way into a new decade, my darling girl. My heart explodes with the love I have for you: beautiful mother, beautiful wife, beautiful daughter.  You are a gift to the world, and we are all blessed.  

Recently, I was texting a friend about Emery’s birthday in October.  Her daughter died five years ago.

“Do I say celebrate?” I asked her. 

“Yes,” she said, “because we will always celebrate the day our girls were born.”

Celebration is still a difficult word to use for the first birthday that our family will experience without Emery, but I am holding tight to her words… celebrate the day she was born.

After being out of town or country for so many of Emery’s birthdays, I will be where I need to be on October 2nd this year.  I’ll be with her brothers and their families on a beach in southern California.  If I could find a pastel pink baby bootie cake, I would buy it and light the metal sparkler candles I recently found in a basket on one of my kitchen shelves. I have no idea where the candles came from, but ironically, there were two, a five, and a three.  I thought, how odd, then I turned them around—a three and a five.  Thirty-five.  The age I was when I had Emery, the age Emery would have been this year.  

October 2, 2025.  We’re celebrating your birth, my darling girl, and the gift you gave to all of us who loved you.  I found the perfect birthday card for you months before you died, which I set aside because that’s what I do.  It’s in a small stack of cards that are separate from my larger stash, as none of them will ever be sent, but will be reread often by me; a Mother’s Day card, a Father’s Day card, a birthday card for Dad, and one for you.  You are missed beyond measure and so very loved.

Today is day 257. 257 days of feeling lost, untethered, disconnected. 257 days of waking up to the same thought. She’s gone. Emery died. She’s never coming back. 257 days of not being able to text her or call her, but mostly text her because she hated talking on the phone. 257 days of a missing that is so deep I feel it in my bones, and they hurt. 257 days of holding my breath when family members don’t immediately return my call or text. My mind goes to the dark side because now I know that terrible and unpredictable things not only can happen, but do. 257 nights of either sleeping twelve hours and still not feeling ready to get up, or not sleeping at all. 257 days of wondering where I went and if I’ll ever be back. 217 days of counting days, starting on day 40, which is a significant day in many religions, but only became significant to me because there was a gathering of some of Emery’s friends on day 40, and I wrote about it in my journal of letters to her. The next day, I wrote 41 next to the date, and I’ve been writing the day ever since.

I remember day 100. I was in Manzanita, Oregon, staying in a cottage on the beach that I had rented the year before. This year was a much different stay. My walks on the beach were tearful and sad, and didn’t hold the wonder and awe they held the previous year. I was marking time until my sons and their families’ arrival for a visit. When I wasn’t walking on the beach, I was sleeping on the blue couch, the one that faced the ocean, and held me during the afternoons when everything else felt too hard. Napping was an easy escape.

That morning, on day 100, I was walking down the beach when my son-in-law, Miles, called me. We exchanged grief stories: What do your days look like? How’s your sleep? How are Arlo and Muna? How are you? Then he told me he needed to talk to me about something, words that had me finding a place to sit down. He was considering a move to Costa Rica with the children…for a year. It was something he and Emery had discussed after their second trip there, and something Emery had also mentioned to me. My first reaction was panic, thinking he couldn’t possibly take Arlo and Muna, or himself, away from their support systems. Or me, which is really where I landed. It would be more loss on top of the loss I was still buried under. He told me he was struggling with living in the house, surrounded by Emery’s things. Nosara, Costa Rica, would be a start fresh, where they would feel Emery’s energy, but not be inundated by her things. It made sense. How could they possibly heal while navigating around the massive crater that the loss of Emery had left? Maneuvering around the hole in their lives while doing the things that Emery had always been a part of — school drop off and pick up, going to the store, friends’ houses for play dates, excursions for ice cream, the park, and all the other places that everyday life took them, but without their anchor.

Arlo and Muna were following in their Dad’s lead…tiptoeing around the places, the feelings and the things that were Emery, while attempting to find as much normalcy as possible. Leaving made sense, and moving to Nosara, even more so, as they had dreamed of living there for a year to raise bilingual and multicultural children. By the time we hung up, I had given Miles my full approval. Then, with the Pacific Ocean in front of me, I wept. It would be another goodbye. Another loss. I started wondering where I belonged. Emery was the one who brought me to Boulder, and now she was gone. And soon, Miles and the children would be gone as well.

I felt a similar disconnect with Boulder that Miles was experiencing. So many places had become emotional triggers. I couldn’t go into shops where Emery and I frequented, or where the owners knew her, or restaurants where we often ate. I have left my home more than I’ve stayed.

Since January 4, 2025, I’ve been on 16 flights, mainly to LA and Portland, Oregon, and have slept in 18 different beds, as well as one night in a chair in the ICU at Foothills Hospital in Boulder. I’ve driven from Boulder to Portland and back, from Boulder to Kansas City and back three times, and from Boulder to LA, where I’m currently staying for the month of September. Boulder has become a difficult place for me to be, but at the same time, it is where so much of Emery was, and I don’t want to lose that.

Recently, I visited her house and walked through her wildflower spiral garden, a spiral I had often walked with Arlo and Muna in the summer. One particular day, while Arlo and Muna were trying to find their “pet” toad, who lived among the flowers, I glanced over and saw Emery standing at the side of the garden, smiling —something she often did while watching me play with Arlo and Muna. I returned her smile, a gesture deep with emotion and understood by both of us: love, for each other and love for Arlo and Muna. Afterwards, I gave her some suggestions on how she could control the weeds the following year, and she smiled and nodded her head, but we both knew she wouldn’t do it. Any of it, because she liked a wild garden, but knew I’d make the suggestions as I did every summer. Being there without her or the children was one of the loneliest moments I’ve felt since she died. It was more confirmation to me that Miles had made the right decision by moving to Costa Rica for the year, even though I missed them dearly.

Over the last 257 days, my writing has shifted to pieces about Emery and grief because I write about what life shows me and what I feel, and that is my current life loop. My routine remains unchanged and I still get up every morning at 7:00, make my coffee, and sit down at my computer to write for at least two hours.

Shortly before the Costa Rica move, Muna came over for a sleepover. While she was carefully taking her things out of the toiletry bag that had once belonged to Emery and organizing them on my bathroom counter (her toothbrush, toothpaste, a plastic unicorn, a tube of lipstick and two of Emery’s hair clips), she spotted my robe hanging next to my bathtub. My grandchildren are curious about things they don’t usually see of mine, like pajamas and robes, as well as what I look like when I brush my teeth, what I read before I go to sleep and if I sleep with a nightlight on. Muna told me my robe was beautiful. I agreed and told her that her Mama had given it to me last Christmas because she thought I needed to look nice when I got up in the morning to write. I’ve worn it every morning since she gave it to me, except when it’s in the laundry, and I love that my morning writing routine came to mind in the shop where she purchased it. Muna liked her Mama’s suggestion that I look nice when I write, and told me, “Well, I don’t drink coffee in the morning, or ever, and I don’t write, except for my name, but I would wear a robe if I had one.” Before I could respond, she added, “Especially if it had dogs on it! Then I would wear it EVERY morning!”

I’ll be going to Costa Rica in October for Muna’s sixth birthday, and there will be a pink robe in my suitcase with dogs and hearts all over it. We will wear our robes together while I drink coffee and she doesn’t. And we will look nice, and Emery would have loved it.

For 257 days, and often without warning, I’ve cried. Sometimes, it hits me with the same fervency as it did at 11:38 am on the morning of January 4th. No one should ever have to relive those feelings of anguish that present themselves, frequently and at unexpected moments…while walking up my stairs to go to bed, or getting into my car after grocery shopping, or on a hiking trail or a neighborhood walk. It usually passes quickly, but leaves a feeling that wants to hang on.

I often return to the memory of telling Emery goodbye, while machines kept her alive in a hospital in Denver, her time on this earth being left in her family’s hands, who told the doctors when to turn the machines off. A tiny part of me thinks there might be a different outcome when I go through that last day in my mind. Much in the same way, I would call my Dad’s phone after he died, thinking maybe, just maybe, he’ll answer. Of course, he never did, but what if he had? Joan Didion called it magical thinking. I call it misplaced hopefulness or not being able to accept reality. But the ending doesn’t change. Miles still gives the doctor a nod, indicating that we’re ready, and she still shuts down the machines. The doctor still gives Emery her final physical exam, and she still pulls out her phone to do what I’ve seen so many times in the movies, yet I still brace myself, knowing what’s next. “Time of death, 11:38 am.” The nurse still writes it down.

The room goes quiet. So quiet I think I can hear every one of our hearts beating, but the one that stopped beating is the one that is the loudest. My heart hovers in the space between where I’m standing and Emery, who is now referred to as a body, is lying. Maybe it’s not sure where it belongs. Maybe it still doesn’t know, 257 days later.

On Memorial Day, 2025, I slipped on wet grass while playing with my grandchildren and broke my ankle.  Three days later, I drove to Sedona for a week of grief therapy.  I shouldn’t have, as it was my right ankle, but I did it anyway.  I was treated at a nearby urgent care, and when the nurse practitioner told me my ankle was broken and I’d need a boot,  I told her I was driving to Sedona in three days.  She looked up at me with raised brows, and before she could say anything, I added, “For therapy.  My daughter recently died… from unexpected complications from the flu…in two and a half days.”

“The flu? Oh my god… I’m so, so sorry.  I hope you’ll find what you need in Sedona. Oh, and take the boot off when you’re driving.” Before leaving the room, she stopped, looked at me again, and in a gentle voice said, “I really am sorry.  Take care.”  I heard that as permission because it was what I needed to hear.  I knew if I cancelled, it would be a long time before the therapists, chosen specifically for me, would have availability.

I knew that driving to Sedona would not be good for my ankle, but I also knew I needed to put my mental health ahead of my physical health.  Two days later, I got in my car and made the two-day trip to Sedona with my boot riding shotgun, until I made a stop, then I’d put it on. Once at the hotel, I took off my boot and replaced it with ice and elevation, making that my hotel routine. I thought I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t.

I had ten sessions in five days. I was alone in my therapy, not in a group, and the ten sessions were all different — talk therapy, therapy while seated on a large rock next to a river, breath work, equine therapy, massage therapy, and energy work. Most days, I had two sessions, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with a break in between for lunch, except for equine therapy, which was a three-hour session, leaving me too exhausted to do anything else afterwards but sleep. All the therapists had been notified about my injury, and Belle, the horse trainer/therapist, had a chair waiting for me when I arrived. The horses, Penny, Mimi, and Salsa, stood close together with their noses pressed against the wall. I asked Belle what they were doing. I’m not a horse person and didn’t grow up around horses, but their positioning looked odd to me. She said they were working. She had told them about me, and they were waiting. I was struck by the two mares, Mimi and Penny, because I often called my daughter, Emery, Mimi, and one of her favorite dolls was named Penny. It felt like she was right next to me, beside my chair, with our eyes on the horses.
I shared stories about Emery with Belle, most of them through tears.  The horses would react by stomping their feet or moving their heads up and down. 

Belle told me they were responding to my stories and were feeling both my emotional pain and the physical pain of my ankle.  Horses read energy and vibrations, and Belle told me they heard me and could understand me in the same way a person who is deaf hears music.  I felt comforted in their presence.  I don’t understand horses or their ability to co-regulate their nervous system to a person in pain, but by the time I left, my ankle no longer hurt, and I felt a deep sense of calm.  When the session was over, I approached Penny to express my thanks.  I felt Emery’s hand on mine, a hand that also had feared horses, as I stroked her neck, feeling calm and drawn to the massive animal I had feared when I arrived.

Digging into the essence of who you are, without edits, is exhausting work, and I had little energy left at the end of the day. I ate dinner as early as I could, mostly to get it over with so I could go to bed. At that hour, I ate in almost empty restaurants with people I used to say were old, but now I’m their age.
On the recommendation of one of my therapists,  I went to the Airport Mesa Grill.  The restaurant is situated on a vortex, a concentration of the Earth’s energy that many believe promotes spiritual growth and healing. Sedona has become famous for its seven vortexes, the Airport Mesa Grill being one of them. The restaurant’s appeal to me was less about the vortex, although I was curious, and more about being able to sit at the bar and watch small planes taxi across the tarmac.  That, to me, was an energy center I could feel because of my flying history with small airplanes. It became my restaurant of choice, and I returned two more times during my week in Sedona, sitting in the same spot at the bar, the one closest to the window.  I didn’t talk, but became an observer instead, while I watched the planes, the people at the bar, and my thoughts.

My week of therapy in Sedona was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, except deciding to file for divorce twenty years ago. When people asked me when I returned home if the therapy had helped or if I felt better, I had to answer no, but I felt different, and for now, different felt like enough.

My therapists were the ones holding the magnifying glass and the flashlight to my grief while I worked my way through to the depths of my soul, digging through the layers that had been buried by life. They were my guides, but I was the one on the journey, and in the end, after excavating parts of myself I didn’t know existed, with apprehension and a pickaxe, I now know where the diamonds are.  I haven’t uncovered one yet, but I know where they are buried.  It is in the grief of losing my daughter that I have found a quiet that I’ve never felt before.  It’s raw and honest, speaking the truth in a voice that shakes and is barely audible, but I can still hear it.  The pain is excruciating, yet pure and strangely comforting.  One of the therapists told me that he was impressed with my bravery and my willingness to step into the fire and spend time with my grief.  His words surprised me. I told him I lived in the fire because it is in the pain where I’ve found the most profound love, and I will crawl through sprays of brambles of sorrow to reach it, if I have to.

I wanted to be able to come home and, when asked if my work in Sedona helped with my grief and loss, say yes, and I feel so much better, but that’s not what happened. I dug deep into my soul at the edge of a river, next to three horses in a stall, on a cushion in a studio where I did breath work, in therapists’ homes, in a clearing in the woods, and Emery was right there with me.  She came to me in my dreams and told me to lean into the strength I had forgotten I had, but she hadn’t. I felt her presence, her guidance, and her strength.

Before I left Sedona, I went into one of the many aura photo studios in town. Emery had a photo of her aura taken at a fundraiser a few months before she died. It was beautiful, so much so that it was on display at her celebration of life. Her face was surrounded by a gradient of violets and blue, fading to white.  The therapists I showed the picture to all responded with amazement at its beauty, adding that the colors indicated she was a very old soul.  I know little to nothing about auras, but I decided I wanted to see what mine was.  Would it be the beautiful violets and blues like Emery’s? Would being the one who gave birth to her ensure I would have some of those pretty colors in my aura?  I chose a nearby Aura Studio, and was escorted to a back room where a woman got me situated with the equipment, and took the photo. A few seconds later, a doorbell rang.  I asked the woman if she needed to answer the door.  She looked confused and told me they didn’t have a doorbell, and she had no idea where the sound came from.  I couldn’t help but think of Emery, but I didn’t say anything.

My aura colors are not violet or blue, and they are not remotely pretty.  My aura is orange—my least favorite color, but also the color that indicates creativity. 

Without giving it much thought, I drove to a second studio, hoping for a different result.  My second aura picture was the same, also orange, which confirmed the legitimacy of the first one. My daughter-in-law, Brooke, later reminded me that aura photography isn’t a situation where one gets to keep having the photo taken until they get the color they want.  I knew she was right, and I also knew that no one would be surprised by what I had done. I wanted to text both photos to Emery, who would echo Brooke’s words and send a laughing emoji in response. I miss that glimmer of connection.

My time in Sedona gave me the tools to a layer of my soul I didn’t know existed. It also reminded me that I was the one holding the map, and always had been. The girl who had lived in Kansas for most of her life was reminded that she held the power all along. It wasn’t as simple as tapping my ruby red slippers together three times to take me home, but it was an understanding of the journey I’m on and will continue to be on for the rest of my life. I’m the one holding the map and sometimes, the pickaxe.

I returned to Boulder and met with an orthopedic surgeon who told me my X-rays were worse than they were three weeks ago. I wasn’t surprised.  He asked me if I had been wearing the boot, without exception, except to sleep, and if I was still not driving. I told him no, I didn’t wear the boot non-stop as it was uncomfortable, and I had driven… “to Sedona, Arizona and home.” I could have told him why my drive to Sedona was so important, but I didn’t. He said the boot was the wrong height and didn’t fit, and wasn’t surprised that I didn’t want to wear it as it was giving me no support. He put me in the taller boot with strict instructions NOT to drive for the next three weeks, at which time he would see me again. Not even to Arizona, he added.  I followed his instructions. 
I had ignored my ankle and listened to my heart instead, as it was the louder voice. I have no regrets. My now bootless ankle is almost healed, and, thankfully, I won’t need surgery. My heart, on the other hand, is not almost healed, nor will it ever be, but I know where the diamonds are, and I’m not afraid of the pickaxe.

Thanking Penny.

It’s not just a locket that I wear around my neck. It’s a thread of history that connects four lives, two who are no longer living and one with whom I’ve lost touch.  It is the first thing I put on in the morning and the last thing I take off at night.  I wear it around my neck in the same way I wear the silver bangle on my right wrist that was given to me when my grandmother died.  She wore an armful of bangles, all of them divided between my mom, aunt, sisters, and cousins when she died.  I’ve worn it on my wrist ever since.  I was 16. The locket, which moved back and forth from Emery’s closet to mine after she initially discovered it, returned to my neck after she died.  Just like the silver bangle, whose etchings of leaves and vines are almost smooth now after 54 years of wear,  the locket has become a part of me.

The locket was a baby gift that was given to me by a dear friend when Emery was born.  Mothers who give baby gifts to the mother and not the baby understand, and mothers who receive the gift for themselves and not their baby are grateful and appreciative.  I met Donna, the thoughtful giver of the gift, at an exercise class when our firstborns were babies. We were both working on getting rid of the baby fat, which would be harder than we realized, as not long into our weekly exercise classes and friendship, we both discovered that we were pregnant with our second, due within weeks of each other.   We became fast friends who needed each other’s help and support.  

Parenting can be a lonely endeavor, and when the other person in the room, the one you’re retelling the story to, or seeking advice from, is two feet tall and not yet walking, adult company is a treasure.  Donna and I would meet almost daily, entertaining our babies, hers a girl, mine a boy, while sharing notes on our pregnancies.  Our second children, both boys, were born within weeks of each other.  Donna was always my first call in the morning, as we’d make our plans for the day, deciding whose house we’d entertain our toddlers and babies in, eventually graduating to parks, playgrounds, and unique restaurants with quirky themes. We had a lot of energy and optimism and knew that the days with crying babies and rambunctious toddlers were easier when shared.

Too soon after our second babies were born, Donna’s family was transferred back to London, where they had moved from. I was devastated, but we stayed in touch as best we could. Phone calls were expensive and seldom made due to the cost, except in cases of urgent news, such as a pregnancy.  Our calls to each other about our pregnancies with our third child came weeks apart, with mine being first.

When our third babies were just over a year old, hers a boy, mine a girl (Emery), Donna and her family were transferred back to the Kansas City area, and our friendship picked up where it left off.  Donna shared in my joy of having a daughter, and in celebration of Emery’s birth, she gifted me a locket that she had found in an antique store in London.  I loved the idea of a locket and remember as a child being fascinated by the necklaces that held the secret of tiny photos tucked inside.  I found pictures of Emery and me, both at a year old, and tucked them into the small ovals and wore it daily.  

Donna’s third, James, and Emery became playmates who shared many coffee dates with Donna and me while our older children were in preschool. They played well together.  Life was good, and I had my dear friend back, at least for a while. 

When Emery was in preschool, Donna moved again, this time to Canada.  It was another difficult goodbye for me, and our communication waned as our youngest children started school and life moved on.  Phone calls were expensive, and there never seemed to be enough time to finish a thought, let alone a letter, but I thought of Donna and her three children often.

When James was 17, Donna called me with the very unexpected news that James had passed away unexpectedly from rare complications from the flu.  I was devastated and couldn’t imagine the pain she was in.  Emery and I spent hours culling through photos of her and James, while recalling the many stories and memories shared. There were many photos, as I almost always had a camera around my neck for the “just in case” moments.  Donna and I had a lengthy conversation on the phone, but I was at a loss for words.  What do you say to a mother whose child has died?  I wrote her letters. I sent her photos, but nothing felt significant in the acknowledgment of the weight she was carrying.

Emery discovered the locket in my jewelry box and started wearing it, hoping that because of proximity, it would eventually become hers.  This was a trait she came by honestly. I had done the same thing with a ring of my mom’s that I took out of her jewelry box and started wearing because I liked it.  Eventually, she gave me the ring, much to the dismay of my sisters, who were more honest than I was in their approach to obtaining items they liked. 

Emery wore the locket a lot when she was pregnant with Arlo, her first child. She tole me that the sentimentality that came with her soon-to-be role as a mom made the locket feel more significant to her.  After Arlo was born, I made it official and told her the locket was hers. No more borrowing and no more on loan. It was my gift to her, mother to mother. I loved seeing that bit of history around her neck.  

Shortly after Emery died, Miles told me he wanted the locket to go back to its original owner,  back to where it had started.  His gesture touched me deeply, as we both knew how important it was to Emery and how hard it must have been for him to give it up so soon after she died.  I was driving back to Kansas City the following day, and I knew that wearing it would feel like a talisman around my neck, a protector when I needed all the protection I could get. After he gave it to me, I waited until I was in my car to open it up.  I assumed Emery would have changed out our photos for a photo of Arlo and Muna, but when I opened it, I cried.  There in the little ovals of the locket were the black and white photo of me and the color photo of Emery; two little girls, a generation apart.

Every piece of jewelry I wear has a story and a history behind it, most that I’ve worn for decades.  I wear history on my body that has meaning to me.  The locket is on a long chain and falls below the necklace I’ve worn for over 13 years, which I started wearing when I began solo hiking in Colorado.  The words Protect this Woman are imprinted around a small silver disc with a piece of turquoise in the center.  Superstition, habit, or simply my love of the necklace has kept it around my neck.  It now shares its space with the locket — a carrier of photos, a mother and a daughter, along with the memory of a relationship that came out of our roles as mothers and developed into a dear friendship of love and the unexpected connection of loss.

Almost every time I see my granddaughter, Muna, she asks me, “Can I see the little girls in the necklace?” And so I open the locket, and she gives me the same response she gave me the last time I opened it for her. “You are the girl with the curly hair,  and the other girl is Mama.”  Someday, I want to tell her, but don’t, you will wear it around your neck. You will open it to share the tiny photos that are inside.  You’ll share it with your family or friends, or maybe a random stranger seated next to you who is curious. If it feels right, you’ll tell them who the girls are, then will quietly tuck the locket into your shirt, where it will lie next to your heart; next to your memories and the many stories that have been told to you about the two little girls, one your Mama and one your Laudie, and the strong connection of love between the three of you.