n the forest of memory,
where time weaves its tapestry,
A sapling once stood—its roots seeking eternity.
Its leaves whispered secrets to the wind,
a fragile plea,
As it stretched toward the sun, yearning to be free.

Life’s storms battered its tender bark,
yet it stood firm,
Each scar a testament to resilience,
a lesson learned.

In the quiet dark of night,
Across a lonely track,
Shadows stretch like memories,
and the moon scowls back.
My heart, a heavy burden,
Carrying the weight of loss,

weeping willow,
there’s much to be erased,
but who am i to cry,
when i’ve never felt your skin,
i’ve never seen your face

I’m a big guy,
But his hand swallowed mine whole
As he greeted me when we first met.
I would end up marrying his little sister.
As an only child,
I was thrilled to be part of a larger family,
Even if one of my brothers-in-law
Could crush me like a grape.
He was a mountain of a man
With a booming voice
And a hearty laugh.
A gentle giant living alone.
Never married.
Never dated much.
He certainly had friends,
But his family knew he wanted more.
A special someone
To ease his loneliness.
Not that I’m all that special,
But I should have done more with him,
As family and a friend.
Correction, anything with him.
I never reached out.
We were close to the same age.
I am sure we could have found common ground.
As I ruminate to the point of distraction,
My wife throws me a lifeline.
She mentions my career, children, friends, hobbies.
Although I had no time for her brother,
She suggests I wasn’t a bad guy.
Just busy.
She’s so sweet.
I’m fortunate she loves me.
I pretend to buy her argument
And return to my rumination.
When he got sick,
I finally did reach out
And took him to some of his appointments.
The doctors gave him time,
But they couldn’t give him health.
And then, poof!
He was gone.
Just like that,
Never to return.
Like a bad magic trick where the playing card,
Torn to pieces by the magician,
Never reappears whole again.
My brother-in-law left behind
Memories I consider incomplete,
For they should be more abundant and eventful.
Like the time we should have gone bowling,
Or to the movies,
Or just hung out together.
I’m grateful he left me something.
A lesson.
To reach out.
To connect.
To make memories.
To be a better friend.

Dear Husband,
I miss you every single moment of every single day.
I miss your laugh, your smile and your love for me and our kids.
You continue to inspire me every single day to press on no matter how difficult the struggle may seem.
No matter how tough things got, you would not give up.
You took on me and my 2 kids after the divorce from my 1st marriage.
You loved them as your own.
Then came my mother into the fold, whom you lovingly took in as your own mother.
My family became your family, my mother became your mother and eventually my God be amen your God.
You continue to inspire our son to become the Eagle scout he wants to be.
You started him on that path years ago and like you, he will not give up on his dreams.
Thank you for continuing to inspire our family.
Your life, full of military service in the Navy and full of love and a legacy of never giving up will always inspire us.
You were and always will be the love of my life, my soul mate and my twin flame.
You ran the race and you gained your crown. Your reward in this earth was great but your reward of eternal life in Heaven is greater.
You inspire me to keep running the race to press on until I see you again in Heaven someday.
Love, your best friend, your soul mate, your twin flame.

I’m suddenly aware of frigid air;
A chill to my very core.
It’s only been a few months,
I miss you mom.
This is a cold I’ve never felt before,
Rising up behind me-
…. the air is compelling.
It shines, the air is in my sight.

Aunt Lisa, you taught me-
To see differently, to be different.
You two showed me the beauty of I…
Grandma, two decades since you were here.
I can feel your smile and smell Gardenia.
In your bed mom,
time itself stopped.
I cannot sit here much longer.
I scrub the bathtub,
I’ve always hated wet hair.
Yet I saw an orange strand or two,
I set them aside,
As the unfamiliar air continued to rise.
Rise above expectations-
Rise above the concept of perfection.
This air is so refreshing,
Cold breeze in a hot and muggy night.
I can feel the support,
A love more than unconditional.
Unbreakable, unshakeable.
An unfamiliar & unwavering support.
Personal- I feel the tears
They fall as I write,
So, as long as there’s fresh air,
I will continue to rise.

Mom, it’s been seventy days,
Since you took yourself away.
I feel my lost idols,
In my heart and around my neck.
Heaven sent pearls-
Of beauty and wisdom adorn me.
I watch the irredescent bubbles,
The heat of the water,
Contrast of cold air.
Mom I’ll honor your words,
I shan’t give into despair.

– Hillary Rosenthal

Are we filled with mourning, filled with grief
When branches release their last brown leaf
Are we filled with anguish, filled with woe
When the sun melts the last cindered snow

Seasons are a blended transition
“One day”s coming into fruition
And so is this life into the next
Letting go, while clutching to our chest
Like a dainty rose held too tightly
Watching the soft petals fall lightly
What we know, clouded by what we feel
So why does this goodbye seem so real

Are we filled with mourning, filled with grief
When the branches bud their first green leaf
Are we filled with anguish, filled with woe
When the sun brings songs of the sparrow

This is not the end, but your rebirth
Disappearing seed into the earth
Promised beauty after the stillness
Remaining joy despite the illness
We pull you close as we let you go
Goodnight kiss and, “See you tomorrow”
What we know, clouded by what we feel
So why do goodbyes feel so real

I remember sitting in that chair with you
It was for one, but we fit two.
Every year that would pass,
My crevasse became more compact
But it didn’t matter, because I was close to you,
And that’s all I ever wanted to do.
You’d stroke my hair,
Then my back,
You’d make me smile just like that.
I always knew,
I couldn’t bear losing you.

You taught me to draw
With pencil to paper,
You made her the most beautiful figure.
I never thought I was pretty,
But that portrait of me was perfect to a T,
And so were we.
Each pencil stroke Inspired me
I want to be,
As heavenly as she.

I pick all the flowers
Blooming from the morning showers,
Make you a bouquet
With the most beautiful array.
Now the gardenias from your yard,
Are tattooed on my arm.
With each stroke
The artwork came to life
Now you’re with me,
As long as I’m alive.

But with immense dismay
Blood flow was restrained,
And you were stroked away,
But something stayed.
Now your love runs through my veins,
My blood is your name.
I want to be as sweet as you every day.
Your radiant and contagious smile
Now lives through me,
I aspire to be, as merry as she.

As I took a trip down memory lane
I thought I’d write you a letter
It’s a letter in your memory
One I’ll carry with me forever

It was Valentine’s Day 2011
The story of your new life begins
I wandered through the shelter aisles
I was looking for a special friend

Several people passed you by
And at first, I did too
But you wouldn’t stop crying in your cage
Begging me to pick you

I remember your big hazel eyes
And your gigantic ears
And the big red bow tied around your neck
And how your face was stained with tears

I knew from that moment you were the one
And you were the one every day after
You were sick and you were scared
But you still managed to bring me laughter

Those few years went by so fast
They were almost a blur to me
We went to the park, you learned new tricks
And sometimes you struggled to breathe

Your heart slowly began to give way
But you still put up a fight
Every moment was a precious gift
During your final year of life

But the time had come, you could fight no more
I tried everything to keep you alive
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done
But I had to say goodbye

An empty basket sat in the car beside me
The night I left the vet’s
I only had your collar in my hand
And I came home to your empty bed

I miss you every day of my life
But there are days I miss you more
You were my very first baby boy
The one I loved and adored

But you are not suffering anymore
You are running wild and free
Over the rainbow bridge
And watching over me

Okay, maybe you’re not really watching me
It’s just my silly dreams
I’ve been holding onto your memory
Since September 2019

You looked back for a moment
It was time for you to fly
Over the rainbow bridge
Our final goodbye

You could’ve been anyone’s dog
But I’m so glad that you were mine
I’ll miss you forever
My Valentine

Yes, I’ll miss you forever
Eight years just wasn’t enough time

Dear Grandma Moore,

It is hard to believe you have been gone since 2013! It feels like it was yesterday
as the words of my poetry echoed over your ashes in Kansas. I cried many tears reading my speech at your celebration of life at my parent’s church, I felt such a hole in my heart longing for more time. When I was asked to write a letter to the person who was gone that I admired most it wasn’t a hard task at all! Grandma Moore, you always taught me so much. Most importantly you were always there for me and everyone else. I admired how you listened, your encouraging words, compassion, and smile that made anyone feel at ease. You loved being a grandma, especially spoiling your grandchildren (most of all with your time and great cooking). As a child there are so many memories of when we stayed at your house, went out to eat, shopped a little, told stories, played at the park, and played board games. Our family gathered at your house for football games during the football season. It was an exciting time with cousins there as well. No grandmother could yell at the tv as loud as you grandma when those Redskins were not playing well! I loved listening to stories of my grandfather who I had never met. Even though he died before I was born I felt like I knew him anyway. It is probably the way you lit up when you talked about him! You said that he would always be your only true love. I remember being so inspired by how you lived by yourself all those years and went to work after losing your husband: naturally falling into the independent fierce woman role! Grandma, you could put a beautiful vase of flowers together. The magic poured out of those fingertips. You loved working at the flower shop. You taught me that faith is important as well as your church community. You always helped out church members, taking them to get groceries or to eat. Your heart was as pure as they come! You were a wife, amazing mom, grandma, and friend. It showed in everything you did that family came first. As I became an adult and had a family of my own; I tried to live by many of your core values. My dad is a lot like you! Family, church, and friends are his biggest priorities as well. So thank you for teaching my dad what’s important, inspiring everyone around you as they watched how you lived your life and all the lives you touched! Sending my thoughts up to heaven with love!

Love,
Your biggest fan

Lyndsey

This morning, while laying in bed, just two weeks past the 7th anniversary of your metamorphosis, I thought of you. It’s new to me to lay in bed, liminal space during the earliest morning hours. It’s been a retraining of my survivor mode ways, not to jump out of bed as soon as I wake; to linger, and unfurl, and gently open myself to the day. To spend slow, generous time with my body, saying hello and noticing how it feels to be alive. I didn’t realize how I used sleep as a portal to safety for so many years, until that one day in Kundalini class I remembered I used to say the prayer every night before bed as a child; now I lay me down to sleep / I pray thy lord my soul to keep / and if I shall die before I awake / I pray thy lord my soul to take. Who taught that prayer to me? Likely grandma, though you would have been there too. And in that moment I realized I was never afraid of death, death would have been the relief for the pain and suffering that was happening in the waking moments of life. Sleep offered sweet reprieve from battles ongoing outside my bedroom door. It wasn’t death, after all that paralyzed me, it was life, those monstrous, loud dragons that raged slamming doors, pacing hallways, escalating energies. The prayer was an incantation for my soul to be safely guided and protected during the night while the battles were fought; allowing me to remain relatively unharmed, though the damage was done, the noises and venomous words seeped into my sleeping mind.
Notthat I was asking or praying for death, it seemed inevitable that it might be my fate, any given night, to not make it to the next morning, and so I asked to be forgiven for whatever it was that I did to cause the war to break out, again. Was my room not clean enough, were my grades not good enough, was I not quiet enough, was I asking for too much, was I too queer, what set them off? I’ve never been afraid of death, I was afraid of living. Because living meant taking up space, it meant being seen and heard, it meant existing, which felt so dangerous, just to exist. Even though I was born into this life created out of desire to bring union and another human into this world. Born of love and into love, some form of it. Which means I am meant to be here, unconditionally.
Thismorning, while laying in bed, it occurred to me, that all those coins, these past 7 years, were you. Showing me you are with me, thanking me for what I was able to do for you, reminding me I am loved and supported and cared for, unconditionally. They kept me going during my struggles in Durango, that pile of coins at the crosswalk just when I needed an extra dose of magic. A dose of sunshine to remind me that we are all cared for and loved by the universe no matter our actions or judgments in this life. I must have crossed the threshold recently of me forgiving myself for my perceived inadequacy of caring for you in those final months. Now I recognize that you were there with me, as I processed it all, I can’t even recall when I mostly was able to reconcile with myself, though it hasn’t been long.
Thisyear I finally took that collection of coins that you believed were so precious. A while back after you died, and I cleared out the storage unit, I separated out the coins by type, year, and mint. So when I took the box in, and the coin dealer had trouble fitting his fat fingers into the dividers, he dumped them all out, and hastily sorted through them. It hurt a little, to watch how haphazardly he undid my work, but he would know, and swiftly separated and counted, didn’t even check dates or mints, and declared $455.50 – mostly in those dimes you had collected.
Thankyou, for the fourth timely gift of money, I’m sure you’re watching me now shaking your head at how far I’ve jumped into the void of potential financial ruin. The coins gave me just the boost I needed to keep me going for the next month or so. In reflection the injection of funds has always come during a pivotal moment in my life, allowing for expansive growth and quantum leaps in faith. Last time truly allowed for momentous shifts that prepared me well for last year when I left. I hope you were proud when we used the inheritance to move back to Durango, and paid off the condo. But it didn’t last long, and parlayed that security back into debt and acquired an income property. And then again when I found the house, and suddenly we had two. And not long after inherited a third. I’m a manifesting generator you know. And I’d like to think I get my real estate finesse from grandma.
Andthat time before when you paid off Tod as my graduation gift. I felt so guilty, I don’t think I had told you, or anyone really, maybe dad, I cannot recall, that I had, just weeks earlier ran it out of oil, which bent a piston. We were on a road trip back to Durango from Denver, but even before we left I heard dad’s voice in my head—check your oil—but I hadn’t been driving it. We drove Tod that winter weekend with friends and filled it with laughter and music, and when we stopped for gas in Pagosa, I heard again—maybe check the oil—but I didn’t and we switched drivers. And just as we crested the hill outside of Chimney Rock, where there is no cell service, and a lone, creepy, run–down, closed gas station and taxidermy shop, the engine died, and we had to pull in.
Suspiciouslythe crypt-keeper-looking taxidermist was there, and so we asked if we could use the phone inside the shop where dust lingered and lazed on the glass counter. And I wondered if they dust off the candybars before they sell them in the summer when they open, and where all the dust came from in just a couple months since being closed. The phone, just like the service station was a time capsule, and could have been a movie set for a period piece slasher movie, the phone hung on the wall and had one of those fifty foot cords that tangles into only three feets worth of freedom.
Sowhen you made that final payment for me, I squirmed on the inside with shame, that you had paid off my mistake, my inadequacy to care for my vehicle, I didn’t feel worthy. And weeks later when Tod was backed into, shoved and pushed up and out away from the curb, it damaged the wheelweld and the back hatch. And insurance inexplicably totalled it, and cashed me back out, what you had put in. I was sad to see it go, spacious with a/c and didn’t leak coolant like the jeep you gifted me in high school.
Iloved that jeep too, though I didn’t totally know how to care for the mechanical parts of that vehicle either. I ran coolant through it as if it was a dehydrated marathon runner and drove with the heat on full blast even in summer so as to keep the temp and engine from overheating. All those earlier memories of riding around with you and grandma, sister, the dog, and I in the back. Trips to and from the beach, wet and sandy on that bench seat with the windows down as we drove home through Malibu Canyon. That L-shaped stick to held the liftgate, the droopy detached fabric of the cabin roof, the slight scent of grandma’s perfume that lingered long after I had been driving it. I’m not sure I ever told you thank you, for that gift, I was a teenager then, so here it is now, all these years later.
Thankyou for supporting my college education, that first significant monetary gift, another shameful admission I’m making. You asked me once, right before I graduated—how’s my money?—it struck me so deeply, that you called it yours. I always associated the money with grandma, since she seemed to manage it, and she did the research in choosing which bank and took me with her to set up the CD. And it stung my heart a bit, because I didn’t want to admit to you that I had spent it, that I had cashed it out. I didn’t want to disappoint you, there was so much internal shame I wasn’t able to make enough money between all my jobs, and that I didn’t understand how financial aid worked, and that I was terrified of student loans, so when in my junior year I didn’t have enough money saved up from the summer to pay for my semester, I cashed out part of the CD, took the hit on interest, paid the fine. And then did it again the next semester and the final one too. I probably could have asked for money, but I had internalized so much trauma around asking or needing anything from anyone, from hearing all the fighting at our house about the scarcity of money, that I didn’t know or think I was allowed to. Could you tell that I had lied.
Thismorning, while I layed in bed, I cried about how our last couple of years together were. How sorry I am that I still don’t think I actually knew you, how mad I am that there were so few at your rosary service and funeral after all the lighthearted joy you brought everyone, that I didn’t know how to truly help you, and felt inadequate and so much shame for leaving you in the full care facility. Especially because on that last visit, when I took you out to get your haircut and your nails cared for, and you didn’t want to go to get a steak for lunch, I knew, it was clear, at some level, that you were done, that you were just waiting, and it wasn’t going to be long. And though I called, I couldn’t and didn’t want to visit anymore, and it was the longest two months. I had felt the shift in energy on that beautiful easter morning before I got that call that sent me crumpled into the floor in the kitchen out of relief and dense sadness.
Andas we drove I knew we would have to find you that damned suit. I knew it’s what you wanted to be buried in when sister said you wanted to know where it was, so I said it was in Colorado with me. Though we all knew I had so haphazardly donated it with so many of your other clothes and things to Goodwill. I hated packing your apartment up, even though when we found Beehive I was so caught up in how it seemed to align with what I was reading in Atul Gawande’s, Being Mortal; though we skipped the part where I ask you what you wanted, and instead matched the care facility to the standards he recommended. I was excited that they let the employees bring their children to work.
Doyou remember the cutest littlest one, who carried the Febreze can around and sprayed it in her mouth? I’m mortified to think of the esophageal cancer she’ll have one day. And my limerence around the open format layout, home-style cooking, medication and 24 hour care distorted so much what your actual experience was there. So to clean out your room after your death was depressing. To find random pairs of tighty-whiteys in your closet for which I knew you never wore, always a boxer man. I can still recall them hanging on the dryer line in the garage of the house on Poppy. And how they carelessly shrank your wool sweaters, and someone else’s box of important paperwork was shoved in the back of the closet, and that of course as I warned, the $500 cash that you insisted on having on person was missing.
AndI could viscerally feel how it must have been to live in a place where you had no privacy and therefore no sense of safety and therefore lost your individuality and sovereignty. It is one of my biggest regrets in life that I didn’t just kidnap you and move you to Parker with us. But I was young and trying to find the balance between feeling a duty to care for you, and trying to establish my own life, maintain my own sense of privacy. All while holding everyone else’s opinions of how and what to do, those who refused and didn’t want to be involved and didn’t visit you, in my head and in my heart.
Itried, I did, I even cut your toenails that one night, because someone had told me that her biggest regret was refusing to do the same for their mother before she died, because she was grossed out by the idea of it. And so I sat on the floor, and you in that brown, lazy-boy recliner that we had bought a few months earlier, after your fall, when we needed to upgrade the old worn out one, to something that was motorized and could lift you to stand. And I’m pretty sure you peed on at least one of the ones that you tried out when we were in the store. I can’t remember now if you were meant to be wearing depends and you just hadn’t put them on, or if they were so saturated and I just didn’t know and at that point it was far too late.
Yourfeet were in fact disgusting. Until the case worker told me that one of the hospice nurses reported that your nails needed to be trimmed, I assumed it was something they would take care of, but apparently there’s a liability risk so they don’t, and I did. Your nails reminded me of Grandpa Norman’s, and how gross his sheets were with skin flakes, and his room so dark and dank with the smell of brandy and old man. At least you smelled clean, and it was tough to cut those thick nails, and filing them caused a scent of corn flakes, like the paws of dogs. Somehow I hoped that it made you feel better, that although we had few words to say to each other, that it connected us at some level, that you understood through that action all my gratitude for what you provided in my life.
Theregret that builds in my throat and rises in my stomach because I chose to go to that wedding instead of taking you home from the rehabilitation center after your first fall, remains highly acidic. I didn’t enjoy myself, if that makes it any better, it didn’t for me, and it still doesn’t. I almost flew back to you, as soon as we arrived at our friend’s place, where upstairs, in the heat of a Boise summer I cried about being there. There’s this shame I hold for having the bus driver pick you up and take you home to your apartment. He liked you dearly, and was the only one from the complex who came to your funeral, though you had made many friends, and though they circled like vultures when we moved you out to the full care facility, they must have been distracted by the view from your vacant room.
Wereyou impressed I was able to find you that same suit that you loved? I had guessed you bought it at Macy’s but turns out it was from Penny’s. You looked handsome and they even cut and did your hair better than it had looked in months. Another regret of mine, that when I took you to the salon I didn’t show you a picture of how you liked your hair and just let them do whatever, and you never protested. We couldn’t find shoes in your size so I bought them larger, and the funeral home thanked me, because it turns out feet swell when you’re dead. Not that any of us saw your shoes, with just a half-open casket. Muy guapo!
Thismorning while lying in bed, I washed my soul with tears for you and for me, and then I got up, and sat next to the crib you built for me, and typed this up. Mom can’t seem to get rid of it, and I have ideas on how to upcycle it. It takes up space, physically, while your memory takes up space, emotionally, as within so without. “Birth is nothing but our death begun”, Edward Young proclaims, and so I sit pleasurably by the crib and return again. Did you like how I repurposed the credenza you and grandma and dad carved? All I really liked about it was the carvings, so I took the doors and the knobs and the handles. And I use mine as an altar, and I burned a beautiful poem into the one for sister as a housewarming gift, so she too can have a piece of you, and grandma and dad; a portal for you to visit her anytime – enjoy Australia! I miss you, I love you, I hope you enjoyed the flowers I left on the grave last week, and that a bubble or two that I blew

Dear Daughter,
The day I lost you what is one of the hardest days I’ve experienced in this lifetime. I felt a piece of my soul guy that goes. My first baby and my first real loss.
When people try to console me are making me feel better angered me because they said the stupidest things.
“Maybe she wasn’t meant to be here.“ “Maybe God knew you couldn’t handle two babies; focus on one.”
Those Hurt the worst.
They were trying to cheer me up, but those words hardened My heart. How could they be so heartless?
For the time you were here you were meant to be. You were meant to experience love for 12 days now it’s been 13 years since you’ve been gone my love for you has only grown in that time. People may have forgotten, but I haven’t. I haven’t forgotten how awesome you were sometimes I catch a glimpse of who you are through your sister. The first time I got to hold in touch you was the day that you died. It felt so good to Hold you. The night the hospital called to tell me you were ready to leave the Earth, I felt I wanted to go with you. I am grateful you stayed long enough for me to say goodbye when I got to hold you, You were so warm And I felt so much love and also your labored breathing.
As you took your last breath, I begged for you to stay. To my surprise, you open your eyes, just enough for me to see their beauty and smiled at me. Then you weren’t breathing anymore. That image of you smiling in my arms is the greatest gift ever given to me. It stayed on your face, even after You went to God. Thank you for letting me be your mom. It was an honor and privilege. I will always cherish it and the memories of you. Do you remember our favorite book? I Quote the best parts each time I think of you to relieve the loneliness.
Keep shining in heaven until we meet again. I love you. Thank you for visiting My dreams letting me know you are happy. I love that for you. I will carry you in my heart always and continue to be my best self that Your existence encouraged me to be.
Love mommy

In Memory’s Embrace

When I was but a tender age of eight,
A shadow cloaked my world in sudden night,
My father’s love, a beacon strong and great,
Extinguished, leaving echoes of his light.

His memory, a whisper in my ear,
A guiding star through life’s uncharted seas,
Yet losing him was pain so sharp, so near,
A wound that time would never fully ease.

I longed to join him, time and time again,
To close my eyes and feel his warm embrace,
But life went on, with joy and grief and pain,
And I, alone, continued in this race.

Through darkened days, through trials hard and foul,
I faced a world that often seemed unjust,
Assaulted by the shadows, feeling small,
Yet in my heart, his wisdom was my trust.

I’d sit and play his favorite songs, just so,
To feel his presence, close and real once more,
Afraid that as the years would ebb and flow,
His face, his voice, would fade and be no more.

But age has brought a clarity, a grace,
His lessons etched in every act I take,
He taught me cooking’s magic and its place,
A way to heal, to love, to mend, to make.

In every dish, I feel his gentle hand,
In every meal, his spirit comes alive,
Through every challenge, firm I take my stand,
For from his strength, my own resolve derives.

Independent, strong, and full of fire,
He taught me skills to navigate life’s sea,
To channel hurt into a heart’s desire,
To find my peace, my joy, my destiny.

Though gone, he lives within my every breath,
A memory that time cannot erase,
In kitchen’s warmth, I honor him in death,
His love, his life, my everlasting grace.

Matant* Marie! Is that you?

What a pleasure it is to meet you again…yet you look a little different.

You’re a bit younger than you were in the years that I knew you. You are a bit shorter too; your skin is a shade lighter; and you don’t have that infamous stutter we’ve all come to love.

But that character cannot be mistaken. It’s got to be you!
You’re talking everyone’s ear off!
No one could be responding and you continue the story as if the silence was your audience. Your smile shines so bright. Your energy is so unwavering and contagious. Your laugh wouldn’t be recognizable if we couldn’t see all your teeth in it.

But it isn’t you…
Instead of my nickname “Den” this “you” calls me “mommy”.
As it turns out, it is not you, but my daughter Aubriellle! She embodies your soul. She has all the attitude and all the assertiveness, just like you. She knows exactly what she wants, just like you. She is the glue that is holding this family together, just like you.
Every time someone says “She must’ve walked this Earth before” all I can think is that it’s you! It’s you showing up through her for me. For the family. She was the light that came at the exact time that your light was put out. Something about God’s timing that says she was a necessity.

I am inspired every day to be a woman of faith, because of her (and you).
I am inspired every day to be strong and hard-working because of her (and you).
I am inspired every day to enjoy and love this life that I’m living because of her (and you).

Matant, thank you for everything you did for me and everything you’re continuing to do for me through my child. Baby Aubri has pulled me out of some rock bottoms and she has no clue how, but I do.

I love you forever,
Den ❤️

*matant (Haitian Creole): aunt

Nana, you loved to buy gifts for me and my sister. For our birthdays (both in April), you gave us ceramic angels with wings and a number representing our current ages. (My sister was 11 and I was 13 at the time.) We received Madame Alexander dolls at Christmas – most notably, characters from the book “Little Women.” You also gifted stuffed animals to us – creatures from Beatrix Potter’s imagination that wore fancy clothing. These creatures included Peter Rabbit and his friends – a mouse, a hen, a duck, a fox, a squirrel, and a frog.

You took care of my sister and me while our dad worked and our mom attended classes to earn an accounting degree. We all sat in your informal living room and watched TV – episodes of “General Hospital” throughout the year and the ACC basketball playoffs in spring. You were a huge fan of Ralph Sampson, a champion player at the University of Virginia at the time (early 1980s).

Our family would meet you at your house (a 15-minute drive from our house) on Sundays for home-cooked dinners. You served pot roast, green beans or fried okra, yeast rolls, and sweet tea. We all talked about the previous week, discussing what we did at middle school or work and describing various activities. I always looked forward to spending this precious time with my core family members.

My sister and I often stayed over at your house on weekends. (On rare occasions when I stayed with you by myself, I slept in the bed with you.) We all got up on Saturday morning and went shopping for school clothes at Nachman’s, a local department store. Then, we ate lunch at Shoney’s, a casual chain restaurant. My sister and I usually ordered cheeseburgers and fries, sodas, and hot fudge cakes. You sat by the window and chain-smoked after finishing your meal; the acrid smoke curled around you and permeated my food.

The months went by and soon it was Christmas Day. My family gathered again at your house and exchanged gifts. My sister and I sat in front of the fireplace and posed for photos in matching green and red plaid dresses. All of us laughed and told stories after opening our presents.

Later that night, my dad told us that you were not feeling well. I know now that you had not seen a doctor in several years due to being worried about having some unknown illness.

A few weeks later, my family visited you in a cold and sterile hospital room. You were diagnosed with late-stage colon cancer. After I visited the gift shop and bought you a silly magnet to lift your spirits, I sat by your bed and held your hand while listening to your raspy breaths. You died within a few short months.

I was unaware then, but your death would serve as a defining period of my life. I was soon diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. My family did not deal well with your loss and the ensuing grief that surrounded us. I buried my feelings instead of expressing them in a healthy way. My parents felt that my behavior was erratic, so they sent me to a counselor. That, in turn, was the genesis of many years of strife with and estrangement from my parents. Our close-knit family was devastated and shattered.

I fought hard to regain a positive attitude about life over the ensuing years. After working with many medications, psychiatrists, and therapists, I possess a better mindset now. I reconciled with my immediate family members. I can now reminisce about you without crying and I proudly claim my role as your namesake.

I have encountered three near-death experiences as an adult. I wrecked my car and landed in oncoming lanes of traffic when I was 21. I developed sepsis after an E. coli infection when I was 30. And I became severely anemic as a result of a hiatal hernia when I was 45. I survived all of those occurrences and am convinced that you serve as my guardian angel. Though I dearly miss your physical presence in my life every day, I know in my heart that your spirit is with me through it all.

It’s been 54 days, and the moments pass like wildfire–
breath fanning the flames of this remembrance.
I wonder where you are today,
what form you’ve chosen to watch over me from.
Sip of coffee brings you near–soft, silken reunion.

I wish you were here this morning.
I wish we were here, together, watching the butterflies dance to the symphony of birds, lingering in stillness, together.
I wish we had more chances to linger in stillness,
to witness each other in presence, inviting curiosity to our hearts.
Another sip of coffee and I hear a laugh from deep within my bones,
realizing that this moment and that wish are one in the same.
Here, in this house with you,
here, drinking coffee with you,
here, reminiscing on all the memories that will only be made with you as fleeting space–
it’s been 54 days.

It’s been 54 days and I remember it like it was yesterday–
it was a text message.
Eyes on screen when shock consumed me,
I was not expecting the numbness.
And when the tears came they rained waterfalls–strong, and beautiful,
the roar of water on rock thundered from my belly–
You were there.

I felt you like I have never felt you before–
hand on shoulder,
consuming caress,
you were peace.
And joy, and freedom–
I could feel my spirit dancing with your own,
beckoning laughter to fall from the heavens–
a kind of comfort I could have never dreamed of.

You were right when you said you would be there.
You are still right–
for in the deepest moments of grief, you are always there.
Always here, holding the space for my emotions to run wild,
feeling them as your own,
I hear ‘thank you. this is your gift’
And at that, my heart breaks open a little bit more,
I feel you find your way into its cracks–
you are welcome here anytime.

It’s been 54 days,
and the moments of feeling you this close are fewer and farther between, already.
I’m sorry for that.
Your laugh comes through my cheeks and this time it is me saying thank you–
because it is moments like these that keep me going.
Moments like these that are etched into my heart, carved deep into my mind,
new memories in the making.
And it is this and you and the fleeting nature of existence that will live on as the inspiration to live again.
To live fully alive in as many moments as humanly possible,
to cherish this body that grants us pleasure and pain and longing and grief–
that allows us to know the nostalgia of brewing coffee in the morning
and stacked rocks.

It’s been 54 days of knowing you in your fullness.
Each day that passes, an opportunity to meet you as the All That Is.
And I remind myself that this includes equally the magic and the mundane–
that there is nothing that is separate from that which you have returned to.
And I am learning to find comfort in this, though some days are harder to remember than others.

But it’s okay.
It’s okay to forget sometimes,
because You are the ocean–
carrying timeless reminders like clockwork.

So I’ll sit at water’s edge,
stack rocks like memories–
and let cycles of time and tide
strip numbers from the days.

BeeBee
The night of January 27, 2012 is the night that everything changed. What do you do when glue of the family is gone? When the person that keeps a family together is suddenly just gone. A family that is already scattered in different places from Wisconsin to Ohio to Pittsburgh and more. A family that didn’t get the chance to say a proper goodbye to you.
My grandma’s name was Beatrice but we all called her BeeBee. A nickname that came long before I was born. My grandma on dad’s side died all alone in her house on Friday the 27th of 2012. I will never forget that night. The phone rang during dinner. It was one of her neighbors asking for dad saying she hasn’t seen BeeBee in a few days and mail was piling up. A feeling of dread came over all of us knowing something was seriously wrong. We all suspected the worst but no one said anything out loud till dad called confirming what we already knew. Dad found her lying on the kitchen floor after falling and hitting her head on the kitchen counter.
BeeBee was the glue that kept dad’s scattered family together. From coming to Pittsburgh for visits, to taking family beach vacations, to birthday parties and getting together every Thanksgiving at my aunt’s house in Cleveland Ohio. But after she passed away and us grandkids got older the only time it seems when all of us get together now is when cousin gets married or getting together with a few family members whenever my one uncle comes to Pittsburgh for work.
My grandma BeeBee was a very prim and proper person. She always had her hair in a bun with a bow keeping her hair perfectly in place and wearing pearl earrings. Called food that was bad for you or sweet or fatty “poison” that will kill you. She loved knowledge, reading and learning new things. She was always encouraging us grandkids to read, to constantly questions, be curious and learn new things whenever possible. So today she is a big reason for my love of reading and keeping an open mind to new experiences.

A Daughter’s Recollection

You were hit!
one wounded arm
the other
hanging on to shrapnel
from the bombed destroyer ship
unable to swim
bleeding
blinded by
surrounding explosions
in foreign waters.
A combat buddy
your rescuer
making it
safely home
from World War 2
to America
Had you not hung on
I would not exist.

So many lessons learned
one from childhood
friend in the next block
said neighbors were upset
A Black family moved
in down the street
I did not understand
long before Civil Rights
you instilled in me
all men were created equal
never did I
question the color
of a man’s skin
only in time
did I realize
that too many
used only this
to determine
A man’s worth

Countless Inspirations
stepping stones of life
just to name a few
honesty is the best policy
work hard for an honest dollar
each person has beliefs
respect differences
A man is valued
not on the prestige
of his job or
the money in his wallet
rather on value of his character
and the kindness
in his heart
look for good in others
take the good with the bad
be positive
life is hard
keep your chin up
don’t let the buzzards get you
kill them with kindness
never give up
you can overcome
life is short
Always Go with Grace!

Just a few grains
from a handful
of sand
from multitudes of wisdom
faith of our fathers
fighting for simple truths
What would you think today?
it is not the same
America you left
much too complicated
much too divided
Too many tears shed
for gun slain children
Yet. still hanging on
to hope for change
It is my shrapnel
in today’s tumultuous waters
Grateful for all you taught
I treasure it well!