March 20, 2023 My friend’s mom has begun transitioning from this life—her life on earth—to the next. As I write the word life, I imagine it as something you could click on– A link that would open into everything that made her, her— who she loved, who loved her, the stories, the colors, the wealth of laughter, the quiet moments no one else saw. All of it. Her transition from here to there—where loved ones are waiting for her on the other side— is allowing me to see this time,

I recently watched “The Four Seasons” and found myself unexpectedly identifying with the woman who had become, perhaps, a little fixated on a toddler. Which led me to an uncomfortable question: Am I baby crazy?

As I rose at my regular 4 a.m. hour (it was actually more like 3:40 🙄), in the bathroom mirror I caught a glimpse of myself. My hair has gotten longer—like my adult daughter’s hair. Last night, before bed, in front of this same mirror, I was able to put my hair up high in a messy bun, the way she’s done with her hair forever. Her beautiful blonde hair, with natural lowlights, has not been short since the fifth or sixth grade (which was also just as beautiful on her). So she

Every morning, my early-rising friend texts me. Or I text her. We don’t plan it. We just both know one of us is awake before most normal people. If I had to be up at 4 a.m. to catch an early flight, I’d think that was so incredibly early—like most people do. I remember a seventh-grade history teacher—hauntingly tall, with overapplied makeup that made her look like a clown, the unsettling kind. She told us she got up at 4 a.m.—that just made her seem even weirder And now— My p

For a long time, I’ve been writing about what I’ve lost. Lately, I haven’t felt the pull to write about it— but nothing else has come. I wake up early, like I always do. Coffee in hand, I stand at the window. I see a single deer on the lawn, so calm, like the morning— and feel there’s a story there, I just don’t have the words. Grief—and the question when will this be over—felt like a splintered sign in a dusty old ghost town outside a deserted saloon, hanging loose, rattling

You don't always know what you'll need after someone dies. Sometimes, it's a place that holds you.

This morning felt lighter. The memoir, finally done. Off my hands, off my mind, and out in the world, no longer mine. Something written, worked on, and tweaked for the last six years—sometimes setting it aside for months when I couldn’t find the arc, and sometimes just tired of my own writing... Waking up at 4 am like always—when it’s still dark and peaceful. Quiet. Nothing had changed, really. The coffee was the same. The light of day hadn’t come in yet. The house held that

Rocky Boat There are days when my insides just feel unsettled. Ungrounded. If I were a boat, it would be on a day when the waves were choppy. The sky, gray. No rhyme or reason for this kind of weather. It catches me off guard. So my footing is off. It’s scary. My throat is tight because I am acutely aware I am weathering a storm without my right-hand person. I am acutely aware I am weathering it alone. There are no tools in my grief-repairing toolbox to fix this. I just have

I changed the light bulb in the bathroom exhaust fan with my four-year-old granddaughter, Chloe. We visited the bathroom several times today. First, she had to go pee, so we went to the bathroom together for that. Then a while later, I had to. The door was not fully closed. So, in came Chloe and then the dog. Her little hands don’t quite reach the faucet so she used the step ladder I had folded against the wall. She likes that little step ladder. She uses it often in the kitc