The owner of the Crow looked like an older, more broody version of Jim Carrey. The week I started as the assistant manager, Keith turned 50, and talked to me about that number, about how he can really only hear out of one of his ears, about existential dread and “The Beast” which is what he had named Amazon, and politics and his disintegrating love life. We were completely honest with each other about every part of our lives from the start. Sometimes we would go to the pub next door after the shop closed and he would order a martini and I would order a white wine and he’d laugh at me but then order one for himself after he’d slurped his drink down. We’d talk about his mom, we’d talk about my dad. Soon after I started working there, Weston proposed to me, scheming with Keith to get me out of work early on a crisp October afternoon. We’d laugh about how I was at the beginning of a marriage while he was at the end of one. He would go on tangents about how at the Crow, we were not creating hydroponic algorithms based upon keystrokes and mouse clicks to hone, narrow and define our customers’ interests. In our shop, we encouraged them to wander and expand their interests, browsing a real, physical store that doesn’t bastardize the experience of choice. He’d tell me about his kids and his beat up truck and his ailing dogs. From the start we were comrades in the fight against Amazon, against societal norms, against darkness. In 2012, when Barack Obama won his second term, we bought a cake and offered slices of it to any customers who wanted to celebrate alongside us.

The Crow is different from other used bookstores where it’s hard to find anything and there isn’t much light or warmth. Complete with a wooden sliding ladder on wheels, bright hardwood floors and wall to wall book space bring both a modern and vintage feel at the same time. A brick archway connects the two cobalt blue rooms, which are intricately organized by books on parenting, education, food writing, languages, baking, letters, linguistics, Shakespeare, drama and plays, poetry, Vermont, art, philosophy, religion, literature and mainstream fiction, sci-fi, anthologies, and other small shots of genre. Each section holds artifacts that gently coincided with the subject matter. There’s a bust of an old ship captain in the T R A V E L section, a tiny bird’s nest tucked in the corner of the N A T U R E shelf. Keith collects vintage bookends, so TinTin backed up the comic books from one end and Hobbes held up the other.

Traditional bookstore rules were never the goal for the Crow. Before my time there, there were no bestseller sections, no author events, no social media accounts. Just books. It survived in that way for the near 20 years since it opened, but in the age of “The Beast,” I told Keith we needed to make some changes. I twisted his arm to create a Staff Picks section, telling him if we did it for a month and it didn’t work I would scrap it. I convinced him that it would add value and a bit of life to the shop - especially for shoppers who didn’t know what they wanted, and we could recommend without needing to open our mouths. He had just recently created a website, but was more focused on the wood carving iconography than the function of it, which I and another tech savvy employee helped with. I built a functioning database out of his inventory, which he used, though it frustrated him to no end. Change was understandably hard when things had worked up until this point, but for every hesitation there was always a week or so of silent mulling, and then acceptance of this or that update.

Staff came and went. As we worked through our pile of resumes, which grew daily because of course there would always be hopeful bookshop employees, Keith reminded me that there were plenty of folks who loved the romance of the idea of working for a book shop but couldn’t mop the floor after closing to save their lives. We looked for people who could easily describe a 400 page plot in 30 seconds or less, be quietly authoritative behind the counter, and have quintessential bookshop energy. He admitted that he hired me for my glasses and my dorkyness just as much as for my experience at Scholastic in New York and my English degree. Each employee brought more nuance to the shop - more quirky, literary love. A lanky, brooding college student who ended up staying much longer than I did burned the lettering in wood for all sections of the shop. E A S T E R N P H I L O S O P H Y and C O O K B O O K S and E R O T I C A each carefully lettered in all caps, another upgrade the shop never felt the need to implement until the right person came along. There was the tall, quiet, handsome student, the feisty poet, the extremely intellectual long-time customer who was desperate to work with us but ended up being too interested in the books and not interested in the tasks at hand, and so many in between.

We staff had to make sure the music was just right. There was a big CD case that had all of Keith’s music and if he walked in and heard something we had added to the mix - something that wasn’t in the realm of Django Reinhardt or Ella Fitzerald or some other gypsy jazz, he’d scowl at us and very non-subtly turn the dial down to the lowest volume. The message was always received, I’d turn off the Avett Brothers and find one of his jazz CD’s that I had played the least.

The summer holidays and Christmastime of course were peak for the Crow. Its location on Church Street, the epicenter of this small and vibrant New England town tucked in the Green Mountains couldn’t have been more idyllic. Church Street is a multi-block pedestrian thoroughfare and a colorful, kinetic hive of commerce, combining out-of-towners with a sea of university students, locals and unhoused people, the constant hum buskers playing music, circles of tourists watching street performers juggle and swallow fire, and restaurants offering Vermont’s finest local farm-to-table experiences. The Crow was a destination for all walks of life, and I loved being in the shop during these peak times. I was so incredibly heartened. To see a bookstore of all things - a bookstore, full of people asking questions about this or that subject, girl friends whispering to one another about a book they recently read, folks browsing for hours on end, peering at and taking an interest in their surroundings. There were tourists who came through Burlington on road trips through the Northeast in the summer, taking a break from driving or from swimming in Lake Champlain, or Québécois on their yearly jaunt into the states for leaf peeping, or families up from the ski resorts in the winter. One afternoon, I watched Bernie Sanders walk by the shop and pause at the window display. One evening, I looked up from the book I was reading to see the author of that very book standing in the Children’s section with his son. Moms would ask where they could find Fifty Shades of Grey. Unhoused men would ask if they could use the bathroom, and would later be found in the Eastern Philosophy section, talking to themselves. Men would ask if we could hand wrap the coffee table book they’d bought for their mothers, whose birthday was that day. We had so many regulars: Dorothy who always wanted books about furniture, a man named Bean who sought out books on acupuncture and herbal medicine, a buttoned-up woman who wore her sunglasses inside actually named Karen who bought every single Kristin Hannah book the day it launched. I loved playing an internal guessing game where I’d match the person who walked in with where in the shop I thought they’d wander to. Some folks surprised me, seemingly destined for the Golf section but actually ending up in Self Help.

After the holidays, there was the January lull where we could go hours without seeing a single customer. Sometimes, when I was alone in the shop, I’d hear someone whistling a tune, seemingly from nowhere. How could a bookstore not be haunted, though? All of those sleeping voices, all of those stories sitting quietly on the shelves. I would put away books from the used piles we’d taken in, re-organize the children’s section, unpack boxes of remainders that had been dropped into the back office, make sure the fiction section’s stock was pulled up flush with the edge of the shelf, and fill any empty wooden display stands. I would inventory our new books out front methodically and manually, taking note of each new book we had sold. When all was done, and the shop was still quiet, I would make a fresh pot of coffee, and read. I read so much during this time. I read each of the Game of Thrones series and all of the Kurt Vonnegut that I hadn’t finished in college. One day I sat on the floor and read the entire poetry section in one sitting. I read Rushdie and Rowling, Hemingway and Hawthorne, Kingsolver and King. Keith would walk in around noon, stomping snow off his boots, grumbling his way back to his office and then reappearing by my side saying “Where is the chocolate, Lisa!?” Chocolate was a must for him every day. Sometimes he’d bring it in, sometimes he’d send me out with $5 to buy it from the Champlain Chocolate shop down the street - “a good dark one laced with sea salt or chili pepper or macadamia!” He’d shout after me.

For the used section of the store, which encompassed the majority of our stock, Keith taught me to be discerning. That’s how he had curated this unique collection, that’s how the shop thrived and survived. We didn’t take just anything. We looked through each volume carefully and judgementally, making sure they had a good backbone, keeping an eye on the edition, looking out for rare finds and not taking too many titles that were considered mainstream. I had my proverbial hand slapped many times for taking in yet another copy of The Kite Runner or Atlas Shrugged. People would bring us their boxes by appointment and we’d take two of the fifty books they lugged in, and they’d fight us tooth and nail, telling us the stories behind each one - showing us that the author had signed the front page! That this one was special! One of our elderly regulars would sell us books and then buy the same ones a few weeks later, not remembering that it used to be his. In a shoebox tucked under the front desk, we collected ephemera that folks used as bookmarks: old plane tickets, receipts, flyers, menus, handwritten letters, dollar bills. I loved learning about people through the books that they brought us. Once I became a seasoned book buyer I would drive with my coworker, Carmen, to go on “book buys.” We would visit old houses and estate sales, enter homes of deceased book lovers to help their families sort through what was valuable. One day, we drove into the Green Mountains to discover a man who had an entire barn full of Stephen King paperbacks. Shelf upon shelf of Stephen King. Multiple copies of every edition. We could only buy 10 of them though. The rest were covered in mold.

When I told him I was leaving, moving away to get married and to be closer to my family, he shook his head. “You’ll be back on the east coast before you know it.” (Seven years later, he was right). Keith and I still stay in touch a few times a year. We both went through a steep learning curve together, both came away with a strong feeling of gratitude. Even now, I still have regular dreams where I am back working at the Crow, organizing books and shooting the shit with Keith or one of the charismatic customers. In my dreams I am shelving books, straightening the mugs so the black crow faces outward, or I am walking into Keith’s office in the back of the shop. As it always was, the office is full of antiquarian books, old printed photos mingled with quotes, postcards that I have sent him over the years since I left, bizarre art that he’s created out of paper and glue, the wooden desk worn from years of book piles, years of invoices, covered in coffee mug stains. Pink Floyd is on, softly calming him from the day, where he’s eating chocolate, and says he’s had enough of everything. But that’s not always how he is. In a recent email (a real one, not in a dream), Keith said to me of a summer season, “all the data is not yet in, but I’m optimistic.”

I don’t need to dream about it though, I can just drive back to Vermont and park at the top of Church Street and walk in. Aside from the person behind the front desk or the titles of the books in the window, everything else is the same. The fiction section is full and flush with the wood shelf, the gypsy jazz is playing quietly, and cell phone use is still forbidden. It’s all still running after all of these years, after a global pandemic, after the many changes in businesses that Church Street has seen. I walk in, and somewhere on a shelf, a book might be waiting to be matched to someone who doesn’t know it yet, and now that someone is me.

During this year you learned so many words, notably mama, dada, dog, woof woof, cheers, belly button, more, ball, book, sock, wow, cheese, baby, done, and owl. Your favorite toys were not toys at all, but empty yogurt containers, a ribbon from a gift your grandma Pat sent, and clothespins. We finished our basement so that it could be a magical, fox-wallpapered, carpeted play room for you. When we put up our Christmas tree in the front living room, you always greeted it by saying “hi” when you walked into the room like it was a member of our family. Your favorite books were the Llama Llama series and you loved watching Little Baby Bums, a weird British cartoon that came up with some real earworms. We watched you discover the world one new word at a time, and every single one of them made us fall more in love with you.

When you turned two, we celebrated at first in Maine with my sister’s family and the Shepherds combined - what a treat! You swam in the lake at the Shepherd family cottage and ate chocolate raspberry cake, (though you mostly ate the chocolate frosting). When we returned home in Minneapolis, on the day of your birthday, we went down the slide at the park down the street, ate your first Dairy Queen Blizzard, walked Poe, snuggled all 24 of your stuffies, and read Goodnight Moon twice.

During this year, you coveted Ellie and Owlie, two pacifiers with elephant and owl lovies attached. You twiddled them at bedtime and in the morning, sometimes using them for their primary purpose. We retired these dear friends by “mailing them to a camp where all lovies get to go together,” which you handled beautifully. We brought Poe into our family this year, and you were and are absolutely in love with this amazing creature. He wasn’t the perfect gentleman at first, and we felt like we had two toddlers in the house, but after a bit of time, he became the most chill and wonderful companion we all could have asked for. You rode a balance bike. You always ate everything we presented to you, and for that we were incredibly proud. You loved to eat in our laps, rather than in a chair - a habit that lasted many years, but we didn’t mind. You brought so much joy into our home that year, and we were endlessly proud of the sweet, gentle little person you were becoming.

When you turned three, we celebrated at a park near our house, with a ribbon banner that you and I made together, with all of our friends and their kids. You fell off a swing and banged up your cheek pretty badly, but got over it quickly. We had carrot cake cupcakes and lots of yummy snacks. You loved the presents and the singing ‘Happy Birthday’ - your face while we sang said it all.

During this year, you began your love of drawing: drawing on the table, the walls, in your books, and sometimes even in notebooks. You loved your sweet daycare, Blossomtime, which advertises as Montessori but really was just a fluid education model with really amazing Sri Lankan women who took such good care of you and taught you so much, including how to use the potty and how to sing. You coveted Shrimpy, a lobster, a gift from Grammy. Your favorite songs were Yellow Submarine and Free Falling. You called eyebrows “eyebrashes.” You went to your first movie, Toy Story 4, with your dear friend Brooks. You loved to play “Hide and Seep” and “Snake up on Dad” and you loved watching Daniel Tiger and Peppa Pig. You fell in love with strawberry ice cream. Watching your imagination and your curiosity bloom this year was one of our greatest joys, and we couldn’t have been prouder of you.

When you turned four, we were half a year into the pandemic, and had a drive-by parade due to the lockdown, which was a little weird for everyone else but you loved it. We served cookies with rainbow M&Ms on a little table, and gave out treat bags for the kids. We went to Grandpa Carrot’s cabin in the north woods of Wisconsin for the weekend and played in the pink castle he got you. I collaborated with artists from our circle of people and made a Bob, Bill, and Mojo book for you.

During this year, you loved decorating for Halloween and Christmas, and you delighted in a little elf named Snickerdoodle who made mischief in our house at night in December. You loved to sing! You coveted several new stuffies this year: Nemo, adopted at the aquarium on a trip to South Carolina, visiting your aunt Atti in college. Fuzzy, a small giraffe, a Christmas gift from Grandpa Carrot. PK (Pumpkin Kitty), a black cat with big round eyes, emerging from a pumpkin as a Halloween gift from Grandpa. GK & Puppia (Green Kitty & Blue Puppy), a pair, gifts from Luca during a trip to Wisconsin. GK rose to become the clear favorite, and traveled everywhere, often riding in dad’s pocket. We made the best of our time in lockdown during this year, not taking anything for granted, writing and sending lots of drawings and videos to spread joy, and doing Zoom bingo with family and Zoom Spanish class and Zoom school with your dear friends Greta and Reagan. Even in a hard, strange year for the world, you filled our house with light, and we cheered for every bit of wonder and joy you found.

When you turned five, we had just moved to Maine and Timbo brought a bouncy house and your party was Octonauts-themed. It was so fun to decorate the new house, have your Maine family here, and celebrate. Your favorite gift was a Skye stuffie from your nanny, the one and only Charlotte.

During this year, you were deathly afraid of smoke detectors! You started Kindergarten and boldly walked up to the school bus and waved to us with your little dinosaur mask on. You coveted Martha, a small tabby cat stuffie that you picked out with your aunt Amber the day we moved to Maine. You absolutely loved (this year and all other years) playing with our ears - whenever we were snuggling or you were happy or sad or needed a fix, your little fingers went to our lobes, or the lobes of anyone within a couple-foot radius of you - the squishier the better. Your curiosity, your eagerness to learn, and your love of nature abounded this year and we were over the moon proud of you after a wild transition moving across the country to a brand new home.

When you turned six, we celebrated at Smiling Hill Farm on a 100-degree day with all of your Maine family, Charlotte, Harriet, Eleanor, Flora, and again, my sister’s family visiting from Wisconsin. You got lots of awesome gifts and everyone enjoyed the milk, ice cream, hayride, and animal time despite the crushingly hot heat.

During this year, you always jumped a little bit when you told us something you were excited about. We started a tradition of chopping down our Christmas tree since we had moved to Maine, and this year you were strong enough to help dad cut it down with a bow saw at a pine tree farm near our house. You started skiing! You took swimming lessons! You took the training wheels off your bike! We visited your aunt Atti in London. You were a flower girl in your uncle Web’s wedding in California. You fell in love with Disney in a much more measured way than your peers, watching Encanto and Moana and loving them, and even though the other more traditional princess-type movies were presented to you, you barely gave them a second thought. You began to use the word “literally.” You helped welcome a new German sister into our family for her exchange semester and eventually got used to sharing our attention with another person. From the ski slopes to the bike trails to this new housemate, you threw yourself into everything with such heart, and we loved watching you grow.

When you turned seven, we celebrated at Spare Time - a great bowling party with all of your cousins and aunts and uncles, Grammy and Eleanor, Joan and Anna. We had a sweet time bowling with alligator helper, pizza, cake, Game Zone and presents. You loved your Barbie gifts from Grandpa Carrot, lots of books, puzzles, crafts and rock tumbler!

During this year, your love of reading took hold and we would walk into the living room at any given time to see you upside down on the couch, reading one book after another from a pile you checked out from the library. You lost your first tooth, learned to knit, went to overnight camp (!), got very good at building intricate Lego sets, began putting air quotes around everything and saying “dude” more often than necessary. You began piano lessons, started Girl Scouts, and lied to me for the first time. We all dressed as Harry Potter characters for Halloween. We incubated, hatched, and raised six ducks in our basement and eventually back yard, and you loved those little babies as though they were your own children. You officially started taking showers on your own. Your mind and your independence were growing so fast that year, and we were in awe of the thoughtful, capable kid you were turning into.

When you turned eight, we celebrated on Prince Edward Island. The whole family was there. We had an awesome day - cider donuts at the Farmers’ Market, mini golf, mac and cheese for dinner, and a game of “Rad Mad Facts” trivia on the porch. Grammy made you the most delicious chocolate cake, and dad and I surprised you with a Little Free Library.

During this year, your love for bacon solidified. Along with shrimp, pesto, and everything bagels with cream cheese. You loved playing Prodigy on your iPad and learning Pokémon from your cousins, friends, and dad. Your favorite color changed four times during this year, from yellow to purple to blue to orange. You coveted Sunny Bunny, a sweet blue bunny, which was also a gift from Luca. You had an imaginary friend who was a tiger named Snap Dragon who licked your feet each morning to wake you up, and always had a seat at the dinner table. You began getting Kiwi Crate boxes in the mail and became an inventor and engineer before our eyes. You began telling me things I said were “TMI!” and memorized the 50 Nifty United States song with me. You got very into The Great British Bakeoff Junior. Your curiosity and your big, particular loves made us laugh and love you more every single minute.

When you turned nine, we turned our home into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry for a big birthday party with all of your magical friends. We had a sorting hat, Ollivander’s wand selection, wizard duels in the back yard, potions drinks, and Bertie Bott’s candies. The kitchen ceiling was covered in clouds, there were envelopes flying out of the fireplace, and a brick wall kids needed to get through to get into the party.

During this year, I started to see traits from your grandmothers - your wit and intelligence and love of cooking from Grammy, your kindness, your sparkling eyes, and your love of nature from your Grandma Christine who unfortunately you’ll never know personally, but will know her from the inside. Our family enjoyed every aspect of the Harry Potter series - taking each of the seven books as a chunk of three steps: book, movie, audiobook. It was a magical and lengthy process that we all loved. You began playing softball which you absolutely loved (especially the cheers). You finally figured out the truth about Santa and once you did, turned to me with tears in your eyes, and said “thank you for everything!” We visited New York City and Germany and Austria and St. Martin and your love of the world and travel (and public transit) made and makes us both so happy. You coveted Palm Tree, a small sloth friend, a gift from Grammy. You got your ears pierced and joined Odyssey of the Mind, and grew in so many new ways emotionally I could barely keep up. It felt very much like watching you grow into who you are going to be.

When you turned ten, we celebrated by taking three close friends on the train down to Boston for the day: we ate at Faneuil Hall, explored the aquarium, ate at the Japanese Ice Cream place you love, and of course (of course!) Shake Shack. You got a new bike from Grammy and a metal detector from Grandpa Carrot, which set this next decade off to a great start.

So many songs belted from our bellies while we were there. They are songs I still sing to my daughter in the kitchen while making dinner. Songs that felt like prayers to the camp gods to keep us safe. I can still hear us shouting the Titanic song, “Oh it was sad when the great ship went down” up into the high beams of the dining hall like we were the first people ever to feel that particular grief. I can still hear xx telling us about Blaze over a literal flashlight - no this is not a Nick At Night Special this is a real person, telling a real ghost story with a flashlight at his chin - the story of a white horse gone rogue who may have killed some campers and comes back every once in a while out in the misty fields after dark. We were of course told this in the field by the corral at midnight, his voice doing exactly what a midnight voice by a corral is supposed to do: scare the living bejeezus out of us all.

There was a whole vocabulary that only made sense inside those weeks - the KYBO, which stood for Keep Your Bowels Open, because regularity was a value we needed reminding of. We had to take off our swim suits immediately after swimming to avoid “crotch rot” or even worse, “butt fungus” - words that stick with me to this day any time I’ve been wearing my suit a few minutes too long after a dip.

Those dark brown wooden dilapidated perfect cabins which held bunks and cubbies for each of us, and the unspoken rule that we left it clean, no matter what wildness passed through it. These cabins witnessed such a swirl of moods. The loud and silent separation of those who had their periods and the those who had not, all of us learning about our bodies in the moments we changed clothes together, whether we wanted to or not. My dear counselors, who seemed so old and so mature, but were actually children themselves, singing the Indigo Girls loudly off a tape deck (their repetition allowing my memorization) at the front of the cabin, tending to poison ivy rashes and brushing their hair and hugging us before bed and having so much energy and being such effortless role models, as is done when in charge of a cabin full of girls who are watching you for intricate examples on how to be a person.

All of the activities that held our attention and turned us into experts in so many outdoor things. Horseback riding and boating and wilderness survival where we learned to build fires and rock climbing and something called water ballet and of course (of course!) the arts and crafts shack with it’s yards and yards of plastic and embroidery thread wound around our arms - we were building something permanent out of nothing. We were draping our bodies with things we would wear well toward Christmas as tokens of our time together. Drip drip drop, capture the flag in pinafores, the carnival - all of it running together now into one long golden week.

This small paradise sat on a plot of land just west of the town I grew up in. It felt like a world away, but it was fifteen minutes from home. I sent and received letters the whole time I was away. To my mom and dad, to my sister, which surprised me, because I hadn’t known until then that I missed her. From my aunt, who kissed the letter and left her lipstick on the page. From my dad, an envelope full of photographs of the two of us, like he wanted to make sure I remembered I had a life outside those woods, even while he was the one sending me further into loving it.

Above everything else, I keep coming back to the campfires. The skits we performed in front of a sweaty, sun kissed crowd, the songs sung by boys much too old for me to have had a crush on them, though of course I did. One song in particular, called “Warm Summer Rain,” was written about our very camp and performed by one of the elder male counselors (likely in his early 20’s). I’ll never forget the feeling it gave me in this place I was so lucky to call my summer home for a few brief Augusts of my childhood.

At my grandma’s worm, sandy, beach. It is sandy and very piceful. I love it there. It’s my grandma’s worm, sandy beach. It has sea shells, drift wood, sparckles, seagals, fish and my grandma’s cottage. I love it, I feel it, I’m safe at it. It’s my grandma’s beach.

My family comes to it in summer, on holidays and any old time. It takes a long time to get there but it’s worth it. It’s my grandma’s worm, sandy beach.

Lisa, 9 years old, 1993

The water and sand and wood were what brought my mother’s family to Cedar Grove in the early 1970’s. My grandparents rented the property along the lake for their family of six for a couple of summers, and then eventually purchased it. Even at the end of his life, my grandfather remembered the calm lullaby of the waves of Lake Michigan breaking on the shores in front of the cottage. For nearly a half century, it was our very own inland seaside haven.

Hundreds of fish were pulled up from this water by the Chamberlain family and their friends. In the early hours of the mornings, so many different combinations of fathers and sons and black, yellow and brown labs took the spaceship-saucer boat out to fish. They were out there, no matter what, retrieving decoys from the depths of this lake with its icy waves challenging their return. When the water was at the dunes or when it was 100 feet out, when the sun hadn’t even touched the horizon yet and even when the lake felt arctic, they were there. They came back with GIGANTIC fish, describing their size with hands stretched as wide as they could to show the measure. Their rods were always heavy, and their net always stuffed to the brim with lake trout and rainbow trout and salmon, smallmouth bass and bluegills.

To the north of the cottage, a small creek jutted off the lake, which we called “The Crick,” probably because a young cousin thought that was how it was pronounced, so of course that became its name. Once, my brother warned my sister that there were body parts floating in The Crick. This image caused traumatic nightmares, which he was an expert at instilling in his sisters. “Why is the creek water so warm?” my young cousin once asked. “Cow pee,” was the reply. The creek to the south was where we all caught countless tadpoles, our feet sinking in the quicksand, deeper and deeper as we caught the swimming black creatures in our hands and filled buckets to come and show our grandmother.

Before any of my own generation were born, my aunts and uncles and their friends swam in these waters. My aunt bravely swam out and saved the red playground ball at an annual grade school party, only to find herself near frozen. The family’s trusty yellow lab Chipper swam out 75 feet, grabbed the trailing rope she had brought, and pulled her back to shore. All of us grandchildren loved to race to the second sandbar. We swam and swam, dipping under every few meters to check if our toes could touch. No… no… no… then all of a sudden, a mountain made of sand sloped upward and we could stand, way out in the middle of our inland ocean. After a while she would yell to us to come back, scolding us as she wrapped us in towels warmed by the sun, for pushing the limits of innocence and freedom. That’s what the cottage, that’s what this water taught us to do. One night, under a moonless night sky, one of the neighbors caught my cousin and his friends skinny dipping, only after the boys realized the girls had pulled the oldest trick in the book: hiding their clothes in the grassy dunes. One summer after another, the waves warm and huge, our heads bobbed up and down with the movement of this lake.

We all had the absolute honor of waking up in the morning and walking out to witness the hundreds of seagulls lifting off when we’d first walk down to this beach. My aunt would rake the many dead alewives at the beginning of the summer to ensure the sand was clear and clean for her friends to lay out on. Beneath this sand, my cousin found a nest of snapping turtle eggs, and his dad let him take them home with him, hatching them and setting them free in their yard. Generation upon generation of siblings and cousins and friends used muskgrass and long hairy cladophora seaweed as weaponry.

It’s the sand where chairs were drug from the deck in the morning and stayed until someone reminded us to come up and eat something. We played volleyball and soccer, frisbee and tag. My cousins and I dug holes to China, holes to water, holes to nowhere, moats around elaborate sand castles, and buried each other so only our heads stuck out. We built the sand up with drip castles, dreamscapes dotted with colorful rocks and shells. My father once carved and shaped a plot of sand into an entire mini golf course while my cousins and I watched in awe. The sound of Bob Uecker’s booming voice cast over the sunny days, from a small black radio with one speaker, reminding us of the world outside of our paradise, reminding us of our Brewers. Halfway up the sandy path between the dunes to the cottage there sat an overturned rowboat, where we would hide, covering our mouths with sandy hands to stay quiet, scaring passersby with our tiny hands reaching out from beneath.

On the Fourth of July, my uncle used to build enormous bonfires on the beach, some reaching 40 feet tall, flames stretching for the tree branches above and burning bright against the sand - fires nearly as big as the parties my aunts and uncles threw around them. One late evening, my aunt yelled across that same sand at her brother, who kept throwing logs on the blaze even as fire truck sirens closed in. Years later, that uncle graduated to setting off firecracker time bombs, much to my cousin's delight. The tradition of reckless flair carried into my own generation too: one Fourth, my brother strutted around with a lit punk firework hanging out of his mouth, sure he looked cool. My father eventually stepped in to teach him proper firework etiquette, passing down a cautionary tale of his own. As a boy, he'd once held a firecracker in his hand a beat too long and nearly blew it clean off.

And of course there were the walks, the thousands of walks everyone took along this beach. So many conversations, so many heart-to-hearts, so many fights between all combinations of family and old lovers and new. A few summers after my mom died, I remember walking the beach with my aunt, making the sand sing with our bare feet, when she asked me about my first kiss. My grandmother walked with my cousins, telling them all she knew about the birds flying overhead and the movement of the sand dunes and worked hard on the extrication of the word “like” from their vocabulary. My cousin walked with her dad, my mom walked with her new husband, I eventually walked with Weston, my cousin with his girlfriend. Everyone with everyone. And of course my grandmother, alone sometimes, at peace with her life and herself, collecting skulls, feathers, stones and beach glass to place in the museum she was building entryway of the house.

When we’d finally return up to the cottage from the beach, our grandmother would wash us all off with sun-warmed water she kept in gardening cans. We sprayed one another with the hose when she wasn’t looking. She scolded for dirty fingernails, for bad language, for picking on the little ones, for chewing gum. She used well-worn tweezers to pull pieces of the deck out of a long line of splintered feet. The rule was that we must wash our bare sandy feet in the metal pail of water outside of the doors to the cottage.

Early on, when my father replaced the path that led from the deck to the parking lot, my grandfather asked him how long the processed planks would last. “Longer than you will!” was his reply. Along the path stood a tall cottonwood, where everyone climbed as high as they could: a continuous competition that my brother, the eldest grandchild, held the gold medal for until my cousin, the youngest grandchild, stole it from him 20 years later.

There was always a celebration to be had on the deck, which surrounded the cottage on three of its sides. Eight year old birthday parties, toddler dance parties, teenage beer chugging contests, high school graduation celebrations, family reunions and everything in between. My uncle would lift his nephews by the ears, their legs swinging frantically and their laughs contagiously spreading throughout the sunny planks of wood. As a child, my uncle busied himself on the deck sizzling multiple species of insects with magnifying glasses and searing his name on driftwood, not knowing how many nieces and nephews he would eventually have, who would do the same exact thing.

The big, round glass table on the deck saw many meals, so much delicious food, so much beer, so much to be thankful for. A gas grill was constantly churning out tasty sustenance. Hamburgers topped with squares of American cheese sizzled up crisp at the edges, ribs cooked low and slow until the meat pulled easily from the bone, coated in a sticky, caramelized glaze, chicken thighs, whole fish crisp-skinned and flaky. My grandmother and aunt made sure vegetables were served too: corn, husked by a group of us kids, blistered and sweet, peppers and onions, asparagus and zucchini packed to serve here from our various gardens. It’s from here that we stood, launching watermelon seeds from our lips, measuring and congratulating who could spit the farthest.

Humans weren’t the only ones to take residence at the cottage. Our family dogs ran through the woods surrounding the cottage. Shadow, Ginger, Mac, Chipper, Magnum, Terra, Abby, Thunder, Lightning, Shauna, Muffin, Ben, Teddy, Shirley, Nike, Toby, Riley, Sally, Sophie & Tootsie: all keeping watch on the grounds, all monitoring the amount of fun being had. A family of snakes stood guard along the entry path, ready to provide heebie-jeebies to passers-by. One Easter, a real Easter bunny showed up. Bats made homes inside and out, raccoons threw huge parties every night under the master bedroom. After they began to multiply, my grandmother dragged them in cages down to the lake, holding them under water until they drowned. She was a lover of nature, but even more a protector of this sacred place and its peace, so she did what had to be done.

On the days when rain would bring us all indoors, children could be found in all corners, taking naps on the floor, learning how to shuffle a deck of cards at the table, avoiding the mysterious and dark back hall closet at all costs, coloring and sketching in one of the many books found in the living room chest, peeking up at the loft space above the bathroom wondering what mysterious artifacts lived up there. In the bathroom, which smelled like Nivea lotion, next to the green bathtub that smelled like rust, a little sign above each toilet reminded us of the rickety septic system: “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.” There were time-worn items frozen in time that many generations marveled at: the anvil, the Civil War-era musket hanging on the wall, the wooden fruit on the coffee table. The books in the den, the wooden ducks hanging from the ceiling in the living room with strings you could pull to make them fly.

This place of water, sand, and wood turned us all into sentimentalists, brought out the Chamberlain in all of us, and without knowing it at the time, gave us a place to look back on during days long into the future when it would no longer be ours.

Just like June. Just like a childhood. After the daffodils and the crocuses bloom, after a few years of hugs and teachers, laundry spins and spring breaks, it’s off to the races. Growth happens overnight. There are big feelings, bright colors, and uniqueness. And in no time, it’s July.

The back deck is tarragon and morning glory and a russian olive and elephant jade, the east yard with it’s ostrich fern and forsythia and creeping charlie to Weston’s dismay and lemon mint and lilac and hosta to my dismay, and the front stairs with night blooming cereus and nasturtium and a big monstera plant that doesn’t love the sun but throughout summer it eases in and grows 100% of it’s leaves for the year and the north garden is scotch broom and lilac and lupin and purple vinca and boxwood and hydrangea and pansy and mint and japanese blooms and echinacea and lambs ear and juniper and lavender and moss and hen and chicks and an ailing azalea and balloon flowers and bee balm and bleeding hearts and queen anne’s lace, the west yard with two beds who used to hold norway maple before the disease hit them, now hold nearly knee-high corn and potatoes and dahlia, a fledgling japanese red maple, gladiola and cosmos, zinnia and mexican sunflower, tall purple cone flower and yellow snap dragon, the herb beds hold chives and lemon verbena and basil and cucumber and dill and strawberries and scallions, the garden bed tucked near the house, established the longest ago: scottish moss a white and green carpet, daffodils and helleborus which blooms second, phlox and sage and lavender and more mint and more lambs ear and a small lilac and a huge dogwood bush that I don’t want to trim because of it’s beautiful tiny pink flowers that bloom for just a few days in mid-May and the vegetable gardens with sugar snap peas climbing toward the sun and carrots and onions and garlic and lettuce and kale and marigolds and broccoli and purple bush beans and sun gold and brandywine tomatoes and hot pepper and basil, and along the north side of the house a birch tree and two northern spy apple trees and more dogwood and tiny bluebells that dance at their roots.

Everything is alive and needs tending to, and I happily oblige. I walk out each morning to the different corners and spaces I’ve created, this labyrinth of life bursting for this short time, manage where management is needed, and bask in the beauty of new petals, fruits, roots and vines. I give and I receive it all, sit among the growth, breathe it in and enjoy.

October 2010: A speech for my best friend since we were three years old.

I did some math and figured out that you and I have experienced a total of 88 seasons together. 88! In 22 years and at four seasons a pop, we’ve whipped through those calendar pages like wild fire. We’ve had springs full of rainy reading days, field trips to art museums with my grandma and soccer games with your dad and birthday parties wearing all of our clothes backwards at your house. We’ve had summers full of quiet backyard afternoons, trips to the Dells, cheese fries at the pool, and finally shaving our legs. We’ve had autumns full of first days of school, of pumpkin farms and leaf piles and embarrassing high school dances, of New York streets that (sung) make you feel brand new and lights that inspire you. We’ve had winters full of ice skating trips with my dad and ski trips that ended up in knee surgeries, Christmas parties and forgetful New Years nights. We’ve had it all, round and round, together for most of it, apart when we needed to be, and always growing. During the seasons when I needed a sister, you became one. During the seasons when you needed one, I was there.

Now, your new husband has had, what is it... 6 x 4... 24 seasons with you. It’s no 88 but it’s getting there, and I cannot wait to see your calendars flip and to watch your seasons together unfold. You’ll have springs full of trips across oceans, red tulips in your yard, lawn mowing Saturdays and sunny car rides. You’ll have summers full of baseball barbecues, lazy lake Michigan Sunday afternoons, babies running through sprinklers while you sit in sunglasses and laugh. You’ll have cinnamon smelling autumns with warm sweaters and Packer games, full of dance parties with us, and thanksgivings in your very own kitchen. You’ll have winters with each other, winter after winter, snowfall after quiet snowfall, shoveling, sledding, hiding presents under the tree, together. To you both, to your love, to your seasons, and to this beautiful Autumn memory.

January 2011: A speech for my sister.

Colleen, the only way I could think of to share this day with our beautiful mother, Christine Mattingly, is to read her a letter I wrote:

Dear Mom,

Colleen has grown into just the woman that you dreamed of when you had her. She was an angsty teen just like you, and the rest of us, she liked rap music and somehow at the same time country. She always had too many friends to count, and too many boys chasing after her to keep dad sane. She was an LT at Camp Minikani, a maintenance worker at Treetops, even a shoe saleswoman for quite some time. She graduated from the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, and has become the best childcare giver in Southeast Wisconsin. You wouldn’t believe the way she puts her heart and her soul fully into every single thing she does. She reminds me of you more often than not. Time and time again, I hear people say she’s going to be a great mother.

Mom, Colleen has been my sister for 26 years, and my mother for 15, but she will be my best friend forever. She was there to tell me when it was time to start plucking my eyebrows, there when I needed someone to tell me what to wear to the prom, there to judge my boyfriends and of course to judge me too. You were probably aware of this but Colleen and I used to fight, a lot. Like, non-stop, gripping, horrible words went between us. Somewhere in our growth as women, that stopped, and I’d like to think that you had a part in that. We somehow became equals one day, out of the blue, stopped yelling and started genuinely loving one another as individuals. We may outwardly seem like polar opposites, Colleen with the beauty and me with the books… but inside, we are the same. We are your daughters, and it shows.

Not long after she lost you, she found the man sitting next to her at this table. Gianni was her friend for a long time before he manned up to actually start dating her. What took you so long Gianni? He’s a strapping Italian who gets along with the family as if it were his own – from Nonny to Jackson, we all love him dearly. He’s everything you could ask for in a guy for Colleen. He supports her in every sense of the word, he honors her, he puts up with her. Most importantly, he makes her laugh. You would have absolutely loved him. Colleen and Gianni got married today. She looks incredible, the sight of her in this white dress could stop someone’s heart, her makeup is perfect and her hair is just right. Yellow roses cover these tables for you, Mom, and we know how proud you are of Colleen today. You’ve given us such an incredible woman. Colleen has been my sister for 26 years, my mother for 15, and she will be my best friend forever. Cheers to Mrs. Colleen Giorgi on her wedding day, and more importantly, to the Italian brother I’ve always dreamed of.

June 2011: A speech for a college friend who I met while working at Jamba Juice. This speech honors book poetry in it’s highest sense: it was created by taking one word from each page of George Orwell’s ‘1984.’

One way of knowing love is to furtively act with courage. To swim in all of it whenever something somewhere whispers it. And at those moments, vivid, beautiful hallucinations of strength and hope live for a moment in you. Heart and hands, sweat and dust. The songs, the processions, the banners. We shall explode in enormous truth. The waters of memory clear, the shapes breathe vividly and become truth everlasting. There is a necessary moment in which all sex is intricate and good. People exist to contemplate the past, see spoonfuls of words and read and understand and not betray.

We think of happy yesterday, we survive on it. Party if joyless, have sex in the dim lamplight, if coming together – oh –o – o – o – oh! like animals is permitted. Kissing life, thinking bigger, healthier, stronger, happier, might very well be simply an effort to win. Today is unchangeable and your heart is working, so roar and bleed and hope and drink gin like in the old days. Oh donkeys zigzagging, oh revolution, oh tiny sea. It feels like a kind of dance, it is oranges and lemons and not fright or pain – but peace – freedom – strength. Perhaps when the heart banged – I LOVE YOU for the people full of impossible spoonfuls of it. Remember everything and they will smile. Love is sex – powerful and troubling. Sex is virtuosity and singing, breathing fast, kneeling face-to-face, pleasant helplessness and communication. Zealous sex, kaleidoscope love. Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex– magenta sun blazed ripe heart – pleasant tomorrow tenderness. Love – sweet summer air, happy melancholy – lips, cheeks, hose, eyes, cavernous mouth, naked calves and ankles, hands – a man and a woman making love. We all can picture the arch of the sky and everywhere everything shoulders enthusiasm – fabulous and open.

People swallow an undigested heart to love – dream of violent youthfulness and chocolate, devour impulses of power, and yet, stay human. Alive with love. Human bodies will alone exist in separate salvation understanding the existence of an indestructible past and a spontaneous tomorrow. The most necessary and overwhelming task is to settle into bliss, to understand bodies and to progress as a universal being. The world is explosive and arbitrary. Reality is coffee. It’s marvelous. Today is paradise – constant and conquerable. Party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party. Relaxation and enthusiasm. Continuous possession of absolute truth. Concessions to and fro of fear and hatred. The love, the craving, the bastards!, the porcelain cheekbones, the poetry, the pain. The furious stream of blood and saliva, the humming and the laughing – elbows and eyelids – ears and weeping and confessions and sleep and silent breath. All of us sweat and pulse. Imagine people dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Dead men locked up, never capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes, we exist, we grasp happiness, we realize the whole universe is inside us. But what of it? Utopias of love and man and woman, the future will orgasm forever. You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. Life will zip forward and snap you suddenly into character and after that it is all improvisation. The one certain thing is that love is without thought – it is a deep ocean, violent and calm. An extraordinary medley of you and you, of life, death, and of triumphant victory.

July 2011: A speech for two Brooklyn friends, both photographers, who got married on a ranch in New Mexico.

If we zoom in close, right up close, we see two pairs of hands. Holding tight to one another, tight to the life they’ve lived together, the work they’ve done to get here, the prospects they have for one another. These hands have found each other, felt each other’s skin, soft and rough, tan and pale, prepared for rings that will wrap around their fingers.

Now zoom out and see the hands of the audience, clasping to one another or to themselves, hands who know the work that love takes, the way it feels under our fingertips. Hands ready for a rousing applause.

Now zoom in, and see two sets of eyes. Both blue, both deep and full of life. These eyes locked many years ago, and were unable to resist one another’s gaze to this day. They’ve seen all of the other’s beauty and generosity, as well as flaws and shortcomings. They’ve watched each other grow.

If we zoom out, we see all of the eyes of their friends and families, watching a white dress next to a black suit, some of them wet with tears, all of them filled with happiness and hope.

Now zoom in again, where we see two mouths, smiling at one another. Two mouths that have shared the stories of their pasts and the anticipation of their futures, open wide and laughing most of the time. Two mouths who have kissed, probably once or twice before… and will kiss with promise and sanctity today in front of all of us.

Zoom out to over a hundred mouths, smiling and laughing along with them, quivering a bit if crying, but happy and spread wide like the sky.

Now zoom back in, wayyyy in, to see beneath these fancy clothes and these layers of skin and bone and muscle, two hearts. They are in sync now, bursting with excitement, ready to spend the rest of their days in a happy, thumping dance, together.

I make sure to stay within the bounds of “casual hosting,” which makes all the difference. I don’t vacuum or even wipe down the bathrooms. Everything is as it would be on a normal Monday night: towels askew on the rack, the couch with some crumbs from last night’s cookies on it, the floor gritty with garden dirt. Folks come as they are too - no pretense or dress code. Kids come in their pajamas. Folks come straight from work, without stopping home to spruce themselves up. Some weeks someone brings flowers which stay on our table for weeks after. Some weeks someone has a birthday and we all sing.

Monday night dinners have become a constant for us all, and because of the consistency, it’s inconsequential if a given person cannot join. Every Saturday morning, I invite the same group of eight friends, announcing the main course and calling for sides, toppings, desserts and drinks to accompany it. Folks casually opt in or out, tell us who of their family members they’ll be bringing, and what they will contribute to share. It has become an anchor that is always on the calendar with folks who have families, jobs, and busy lives. Every week, a different combination of friends arrives at our door. That is the beauty of it: the variety of attendees makes for lively conversations and sometimes surprising connections. Special guests have included Madeline’s friends, mothers-in-law, elderly dogs, shy husbands coming out of their shells, boisterous nieces and nephews. The only rules are that dinner is in the same place, at the same time, every week, and we always sit at one long table together. Sometimes just one other family attends, and sometimes our kitchen and dining room overflow with 18 guests. I adjust the table length with foldable chairs and extra tables, plates, and forks pulled up from the basement as the guest list solidifies. Miraculously, in our small dining area, we always have enough room.

Each week either Weston or I cook something that hasn’t been served before. All of them are either favorites of ours, recipes of loved ones, or something new we’ve been meaning to try. One night, because they’re one of our guests’ favorites, we hosted a full hot dog night with all the fixings. In November, we celebrated Día de los Muertos and had homemade tamales and talked about people in our lives who we have lost. Another night we cooked a replica of the last meal served on Titanic. During our last Monday Night Dinner, we hosted a true blue Memorial Day cook-out with Wisconsin-style beer boiled brats. A few of the weeks, I wasn’t able to host, and two friends stepped in to graciously host in their homes. At one of them, we started an arbitrary tradition of blindfolding me while getting the first taste of a secret dessert. One of them was a gathering where we ate chili and put together art supplies to donate to Maine Needs when Portland was in the thick of the ICE raids.

Over the course of these last 25 Monday nights, these dinners have evolved into a sort of resistance. They are a way to fight the isolation left behind from Covid and remote work and socializing digitally. They have become a new (old) way to slow down, light candles, think outside of the circles and zigzags and spirals the brain normally does, set and sit down at the table. Phones cannot create this type of connection. You can’t ask Chat to make you a good meal and a table full of people laughing, with a baby taking his first step on your kitchen floor because he’s been in there so often that it feels like home. We now know each other so much more intimately that we no longer have to ask folks how they’ve been, because we know how they’ve been. We know the in-between layers of their life. We are now noticing changes more subtle than hair cuts or new jobs. We now know intricate bathroom wallpaper options, the details of a recent pet’s cancer scare, the latest childcare snafus, and of course the meaning (or lack thereof) of 6-7. Around this table we are sharing recipes, celebrating highs, crying genuine tears together during lows, getting to know one another’s children as they grow in real-time, peering in to see the older kids reading together on the couch while people get up to load the dishwasher.

There is an ease and comfort to making this kind of informal time to spend with people. We’re seeing each other often enough that you don’t forget the real details. Enough that you begin making fun of one another. Enough that you start to feel like a found family. The intensity and pressure we used to feel when hosting has dissipated completely. Planning and execution of this simple weekly event got easier and easier as the weeks went by. People love to just be together - there isn’t much more to the recipe. Make food + ask people to come. Sunday Scaries be damned - we’ve got an MND tomorrow!

After reading it, I had to try it. The art form of what my roommate at the time and I called “Book Poetry,” was born. We would spend Friday nights creating new from old, writing within writing, laughing and crying at outcomes. We included it as a ritual in our evenings, and introduced it to anyone who wanted to join us. The freedom of the form was so vast - even folks who didn’t fancy themselves writers or artists found it to be a delight. Here is one of my pieces, taken from an 80’s romance novel I found in a box marked FREE on State Street in Madison:

Fast forward to a few years ago, when I discovered the beautiful and talented writer, Kate Baer, who not only is an acclaimed poet, but also… a ‘book poet’ in her own right. Because she writes poetry about womanhood and empowerment and the messiness of motherhood that is at times jarring and potentially too honest for some, certain folks get angry online and post comments degrading her and shaming her publicly. In her book, I Hope This Finds You Well, she takes those comments and does just what Tom Philips did in A Humument. She makes them into art, shifting them into entirely different versions.

I recently tried book poetry in a new way: with a page of my journal. A page of free form writing of woes and worries, turned, with a lot of black-out, into a simplified version of what ultimately I needed to hear back from myself. Here it is:

A truth

that I have had a hard time accepting is

that time is passing. I am here being as present in mind, in breath, taking care of my body and my family and remembering

to put down my phone and listening rather than reacting and writing lists of nature, and going on 90’s walks and taking my time and spending my time with Madeline intentionally and practicing gratitude

so much lately, but no matter what I do to try to slow it all down it’s going and she’s growing and I’m getting older and my body is getting looser and

the time that is so sweet now I can’t help but feel a sense of loss before it is even lost. She still wants to spend time with me, still hugs me, her face smashed against my middle, she still asks me questions and wants me to help her. She wants me to rub her back and brush her hair. But small changes are happening like how she taught me the walking meditation exercise “I notice, I wonder,” and she challenged my knowledge of what a trend is and is showing me some of the bad parts of myself by mirroring them - blaming or shaming, snapping back without thinking, being

grouchy for no reason but actually a reason that hasn’t figured itself out yet. But I fear that all of a sudden all of this will be gone, she will want mostly to be out of the house, away from us, free. Instead of at home

she will be having fun somewhere else. Not needing gummy vitamins anymore, just needing money or a ride or help in

a bigger way that I have a hard time imagining and then suddenly I’ll see her 4x per year and beg to be back with her in childhood, have a taste of what this is now

but it will never actually be the same.

Over the last few years as I gain footing in my own motherhood, I have asked folks in my life to describe what their mothers did well. So many of these themes overlapped and abounded in a language all of these mothers share without ever meeting. In honor of Mothers’ Day next week, I am sharing below the beautiful stories they told.

She did a good job of letting us be kids. She didn’t make us feel like we were too much or stressing her out. She also instilled in us a sense of appreciation for what we had and did not compare us to others. She encouraged us to have empathy and gratitude for our situation and each other. She also never put us in the middle of conflict with my father or vented to us. In hindsight, she was very strong. - MD

My goodness… I owe everything to my mom. She was an entrepreneur: starting and maintaining a business in the hospitality world which has an unrelenting schedule all the while raising three kids who always felt loved, supported and cared for. All three of us were oblivious to the challenges of their jobs because we felt SO loved. - ND

My mom jokes a lot and makes my friends laugh, like when she acts like the fresh, warm cookies she made are disgusting and that we shouldn’t dare try them. She always snuggles me. I love talking to her about everything. - MS

My mom made everything special. Little things and big things. If the stars were particularly bright one summer night we’d stay up late and walk down to the water just to look at them. One time she was out for a run and spotted a ladyslipper in the woods, and the next morning she woke me up early before school and we hiked out there and had breakfast beside it. Just next to the flower. She had and has a real sense of spontaneity and fun. She didn’t let routine get in the way of making the day-to-day special. - AQ

My mother took us and our neighbors on so many adventures. She made sure we had everything we needed (and so many of the things we wanted too). She taught us to be curious, not judgmental of others and that everyone is dealing with things that you may not be aware of. She taught us about being generous, about looking on the bright side, about being playful, and not being afraid to get dirty. She showed us that girls can do anything boys can do, encouraged us to be outside as much as possible, and helped us identify, connect, and care for plants and animals. She taught us to see the beauty in things and people, to trust that we would make mistakes and learn from them. She instilled in us such a deep knowledge that she would always accept us and love us for who we were, are, and will become. - AS

My mom was really good about making things special and important. Things like birthdays always had elaborate themes, with matching invitations, party games, decorations, cakes and goodie bags. There were family traditions for all sorts of holidays and celebrations, not just Christmas but Valentine’s Day and Fourth of July. She modeled selfless giving to others. She did lots of volunteer work. She valued multigenerational relationships. She took my sister and I to visit family friends who lived alone or in nursing homes and had us practice talking to people whose day-to-day was so dramatically different from ours. She instilled how important, special, and interesting connection with older adults could be. She made time to come to volunteer in our classrooms when I was young. That was really special when I think back to it. - CK

I think the most straightforward reply is - everything. She gave me everything I ever wanted but said “no” enough to make me crave my own freedom and independence. she sheltered me from bad influences and people but let enough bogies through that I suffered some licks and figured out how to judge character. She held me to high standards but never at the expense of celebrating other people’s talents and accomplishments. She let the world revolve around our life- our school, our friends, our activities, and never made that seem like a sacrifice. She gave us stability, structure. She showed us how to make and keep friends, and how to be part of a community. She had strong opinions and a strong sense of right and wrong. - MP

My mom provided us with a lot of theater, arts, and local cultural events and experiences. - CP

With my wonderful mom, my love was safe, she loved me unconditionally, she was present, supportive, fun, she let me be me, and she was my friend. She was always putting in the hard work to ensure I turned out to be a decent human being. I now recognize just how diligent she was, and just how tough this kind of work is! A mother is safety. It’s unconditional love. It’s support. - KD

She put on bumpers and let me roll, she celebrated my successes and held me when I fell. She was always a great listener, even when I told her I was going to start having sex at age 14. She “let me be me” and helped me follow my joy. She encouraged positive relationships and found silliness throughout. She cherished the outdoors and nature, and although she wasn’t a risk taker herself, she let me dance on the edge and didn’t hold me back. She valued family and the more the merrier was our motto. We had an open house, extra food and drink and there was always a friend on our boat. She was confidante instead of a force and I so looked forward to time with her, even as a kid. - LM

My mom had such a calming presence. She was so caring, so kind to all creatures great and small. She taught me to stop and smell the flowers, identify what they were, and appreciate their every petal. She was so present. She taught me to always stand in someone else’s shoes before judging them. She was the most generous person I knew - especially for someone who didn’t have much materially. She was a minimalist, with simple taste, who taught me that beauty lies within. She had a very silly side - “dancing” the car at stop signs, making up ridiculous poems, and laughing really hard at flatulence. She did such a good job making me feel loved. - (me)

Putting her kids first, sometimes to a fault! Remaining calm and patient through our “moments.” Asking questions when trying to guide us through any struggles we were having. Having high expectations while also having empathy when we needed a mental health break. Creating a culture of honesty. - GK

My mom opened books, everyday of my childhood, bringing me into me stories that changed my insides; hopeful, hilarious, heartbreaking… she opened my mind and heart with these gifts, treasures I carry and offer my own children now. My mom is a gifted painter, and made art with me always. She joyfully opened a world of color, shape, shadow snd light, and taught me lessons I use everyday in my work as a portrait artist. I hear her words guide my hand even now, as I paint. My mom is famous for the cakes she bakes and decorates. Every year on my birthday she would surprise and delight me with a confection so exquisitely, lovingly, brilliantly created; to say I felt seen and special is too little. My mom remains a steady source of comfort to me, everyday. She has held me together for repair through times I was in bits, and celebrated my seasons of growth and expansion. She takes care of my children, my husband, and me in ways great and small, with a willing heart. - JD

When we were having a really bad day, she would let us swear for like a minute straight. She didn’t try to pretend all was perfect, and she was never too shiny. She was also always so supportive of our friends - even the naughty ones. She wouldn’t be mad at anyone for messing up. Everyone always felt safe with her. And even though she always told us life wasn’t fair, she did her best to make everything as fair as possible. She was teaching us hard lessons while still trying to make things equal. She was also a phenomenal host. She hosted every holiday and created an environment where people felt excited and cared for. There was always more food than you could imagine and the table always looked amazing. I think she taught me the importance of creating beauty around you and how much that matters. If my mom were represented as an image in my head right now, it would be an abundant cornucopia overflowing with food - because that’s representative of the care she gave to people, and how meaningful it was to her to serve them. - AE

My mom always managed to carve out time for physical activity. This was something I didn’t really appreciate until having kids of my own. I remember her running the loop at our park and on our treadmill during bad weather, blasting Broadway soundtracks. In her 60’s now, she’s very fit and the grandparent who can best keep up with my kids. - SM

My mother was a trusted confidant, support, and advocate for my friends. She built relationships with all of them. She loved to host and welcome them. She was an incredible educator and advocate for women’s health and rights and bodies. She demonstrated what it was like to be a hardworking, confident woman who was not afraid to take charge, share my thoughts, and be a change-maker. She showed me what it meant to be comfortable with your body as a woman with curves. She taught me work-ethic and accountability. She was constantly challenging us to go beyond our comfort zones while also supporting us to choose our owns paths as unique individuals. Because of my mother I never questioned my ability to find happiness in my life and to build a career and a family that brought me joy. She is fun and funny and flirty and authentically herself. She is incredibly generous with her time and resources for those she cares for or for those the people she cares for care for. - KW

Having fresh veggies available and served alongside every dinner. Hell, making dinner every night for three girls while my dad was at work. Going ham for our birthday party themes (she put sand inside the house for a beach themed party in January for my sister; a full karaoke machine set up and a hand made poodle skirt costume for my sock hop). Maintaining the holidays and other family traditions that really structured my childhood. Those were the things that anchored and defined my young life and that I could count on and look forward to year over year. - SE

The best thing my mom did was encourage our curiosity! I feel like I went to every museum and nature preserve and historic house in Massachusetts by middle school. So many fun memories. - JC

She did a great job of keeping me in line, while also giving me freedom. If I ever did something she would disapprove of, her words made me want to be better without ridicule. She always wanted to meet me in the middle. She wanted me to learn from my mistakes. She was authoritative with a gentle disposition. She never raised her voice, but surely got her point across. She let me be who I wanted to be and do what I wanted to do, while also teaching me how important it was to respect her and everyone around me. - LM

My mom does responsibility well. She is the least frivolous person I know. She knows how to have a good time, but can’t do that until all her ducks are in a row. - LB

She always made people feel welcomed, like they belonged, whether they were stopping by for dinner, traveling across the country with us, or moving to a new city. I remember my sister’s friend stayed with my mom in Chicago for a while, and she just made it feel completely natural. Our house was always the place people would end up after school - me and my girlfriends would literally just sit at the kitchen table and talk with her. She had this really special way of connecting with people and making them feel seen. I think that’s where my love of connecting with people comes from. She was just so good at it, and watching her taught me how much you can find in common with someone if you just take the time to talk with them. She was so good at making people feel welcomed and just making them feel seen. - SH

She taught me that you can be angry at someone but also love them, and that happens often in a relationship and is okay. She always gives me a hug when I’m feeling down and she talks with me about everything in detail, talking through why I feel the way that I feel. Sometimes she says: “soll ich dich ein bisschen bemuttern?” which translates to “should I mother you a little bit?” and then she makes me a snack plate or she gives me back scratches. Because she voices her opinion so openly, I learned that if I think something is not okay, I’ll say it. After I took a test in school and called her afterwards, she would ask how it went and I told her not so good, she would say “you can always come home and we always have food for you.” - NR

I was one of the few people in my circle whose mom worked. She showed the importance of having a place where she was valued for putting in effort. She worked with everyone - in prisons, hospitals - meeting people on their worst days, in the worst hours of their lives, and she helped them without judgment. Alternately, my mother showed me that your job could be a job that you left at the office. When she was home, she was home and completely devoted to what was in front of her: me, my sister, my dad, the farm, a dozen cupcakes, a roast chicken. She was almost never distracted. Across generations and backgrounds, my mom brings people together, holds onto them, and gathers community. She remembers what’s going on in people’s lives, what their struggles are, what they might need at that moment. She shows up and offers it without fanfare. The fruits of her labor here are some of my deepest friendships now. She was and is always thinking outside of herself, constantly focused on how she can contribute to others. - TB

My parents made me feel like the world was our oyster, and my mom let us explore and really encouraged that. There was never an expectation that I fit some kind of mold or role, it was always about just experiencing as much as I could, not ever pressuring me to be something specific. She taught me a lot about emotional intelligence. She just wanted me to go out and be a good human being and give back. She celebrated kids and celebrated their individuality and allowed me to develop in my own way. My mother gave me the tools to navigate the world and figure the script out on my own: if something comes up, you figure it out. She gave us the tools to navigate the world, instead of scripting the experiences or our reactions to it. She didn’t micromanage. She was also very authentic and was real, she never hid or filtered anything. I had an incredibly happy childhood, surrounded by a lot of people and enriching experiences. - BS

My mom fed us really well. My parents grew their own veggies in the summer on our farm and we ate mostly those each night for dinner when the season allowed. We always had a sit-down dinner together: always a balanced, nutritious meal. She was very thoughtful and caring, and as an adult, I am struck by her many visits to older neighbors - to check in on them, to chat, to bring them veggies or eggs. She was a quiet and introverted woman, but she loved making real connections one on one. - LB

Remember when you would work late? After we ate dinner at home, we would drive back up to your office. I’d set up a drawing or writing project for myself at a desk and pretend like my business was just as important as yours. As you worked, I worked. I got a lot of very important things done, and then would move to the computer in the middle of the room to knock out a few games of Solitaire. After that, I would wander to the back area where it smelled like stale coffee and blueprint paper. I’d make copies of my squished face and outstretched hands on the copy machine. When I got tired, I would curl up on the dusty striped brown chairs in the entry room. I’d sleep until you were done, when you would pick me up and carry me to the car to drive home.

Remember when we would all wake up at 3am to drive up to Ski Brule? You and mom would pile us all in the car, and then drive through the darkness up to the mountains at the northern edge of the state. Why did we go so early? So we didn’t waste a day skiing? So we kids would sleep and not be obnoxious in the car? Weren’t you and mom exhausted the next day? I loved those trips. I remember the little blue house we rented, and the hay rides at the bottom of the mountain through the woods. I remember learning to ski between your and mom’s legs, holding on to your hands as we pizza’d our way down. Later, I remember the stunning drive from Vancouver up the Pacific Ocean and skiing in Whistler with you, so many winters in a row. I remember our favorite run called ‘Seventh Heaven,’ and all the attendants who had name tags that listed where in the world they were from. I remember the Irish pub we drank a beer at after a long day of skiing. What an incredible gift those ski trips were.

Remember when you would blast “Back in the USSR” from the tape deck? You’d turn it on full volume and would dramatically sing the verses at the top of your lungs. You did this enough times that I memorized it too, and soon we were both shouting it at the tip top of our lungs. Other songs we shouted out the window while driving:

• “Horse with No Name” by America

• “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by The Rolling Stones

• “Ob La Di Ob La Da” by The Beatles

• “Ripple” by the Grateful Dead

Remember our big, beautiful yard on Sunnycrest Drive? The wooden swing set you built that was a venue for so many make believe stories and adventures with my friends. I loved how the garden surrounded the swing set, wrapped around the back with mom’s big pumpkins and zucchini vines trailing into the sand underneath the swings. That way, while she gardened, I could be close to her, climbing across the monkey bars or perfecting my flip off the bar. In the south lawn we’d play full field games of soccer and baseball with the neighbors. In the north lawn we had big bon fires and plenty of willow trees to hide in, the crabapple and the prairie flowers and wild, long grasses. The back yard held a triangle of trees where mom would hang the laundry on hot summer days, a deck with a large octagonal meeting space where so many parties were held, alongside a koi pond you added. The front yard, wonderfully landscaped and full of flowers, immaculately kept plant beds, a brick walkway and a basketball hoop for us to practice our free throws on.

Remember Christmas mornings when we kids would wake up early and run into your room to wake you up so we could begin the long, arduous process of getting you out of bed? You would make each of us scratch your back, then we’d have to fetch your robe, then your slippers, then let you go to the bathroom, then wait in the bed while you made coffee, then finally, when we all but gave up hope on the possibility of getting out of your room before the new year, you’d appear with mom, coffee in hand, tell us to line up smallest to biggest, and we’d march down the hallway to the living room, screaming with glee.

Remember that time you shaved your mustache and came home from work and when I saw you I screamed and ran to my room, slamming the door? I yelled “You’re not my dad, you’re Robin Williams!!”

Remember the first day of school tradition where you and mom would stand at the end of the driveway as we waited for the bus? You’d have your coffees in hand, a robe on, messy hair, just giddy with excitement about how much you were going to embarrass us. We’d get on that big yellow bus and you’d both stand there waving feverishly like we were going off to war and this was the last chance you had to say goodbye. Paul and Colleen would cower and hide under the window in their seats, but I was too young to know what embarrassment was yet. I waved back to you happily through the window.

After mom was gone, remember when you used to read to me at night? We’d snuggle in my white day bed in my room with pale blue walls. After you finished reading, I would tell you about my day. I needed so badly to communicate normal things to you: who was being mean to me, what my teacher said, what we played on the playground. You were probably struggling so much yourself at that time, but somehow you made it into my room each night to treat me like a normal kid, to read to me and listen to me, and give me the time and attention that I so desperately needed. I remember your scratchy cheek rubbing against mine as you’d hug me goodnight. I would always ask you to leave the hall light on.

Remember our Sunday night rituals? When I was younger, I would pick out a Bernstein Bear book and you would get a coffee, and we would listen to jazz and we would play chess. You never let me win, which was frustrating in the moment but of course made me a better competitor in the long run. Later, when I was a bit older, we would go to the movie theater. We’d get a Subway sub, sneak it in with your jacket pocket, and buy our tickets. At the snack counter, you would ensure optimal bang for your buck by ordering a cup of ice and a soda with no ice.

Remember when you taught each of us how to control the stick shift while we sat in the middle seat of your red GMC pickup truck? I knew how to shift from 1–2–3–4 and felt so powerful. Remember when you would let us drive up north when we were way underage? Those dirt roads were made for extremely young drivers. I’m surprised none of us crashed into a hemlock. When I was 15, you taught me how to drive for real in your GMC Yukon. During my drivers test, I was able to parallel park that beast in the snow, and I passed on my first try.

Remember the stop light trick you would play on us? We’d be sitting at an intersection at a red light, waiting for it to turn green. You’d hold your hand up in a fist, signaling to me to pay attention: sorcery was about to ensue. I’d watch with rapt attention as your hand whooshed open and there it was: the light was green. Every time we would whoop in awe and ask you how you did it. You were a wizard of traffic lights who could control the start and stop of all the cars on the street.

Remember when you’d run out of gas on the highway regularly? I think it happened at least a dozen times over the course of my childhood. We’d be on our way somewhere and you’d say “gotta get gas” but then we wouldn’t stop. Time would pass, and then suddenly the familiar lurch of the car, the slow-down at the side of the highway, the pa-pa-pa-pa-pa of the wheels on the ridges at the edge of the pavement, then wheels soft on grass, then stop. Quiet. You’d look at us in the rear-view mirror and say “Be back soon!” and go marching down the interstate to the nearest exit, to the nearest gas station. We’d wait patiently in the car, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. You’d return with a gallon of gas, pour it in the tank, and we’d be on our way. I had no idea that this didn’t happen to other people regularly until I got much older. To this day, my family laughs at my own gas filling habits: I always let the gas gauge go well below empty before I stop for a fill-up.

Remember every single lemonade stand we’d drive past? Your number one rule in life: never pass up a lemonade stand. We never once did, growing up, and I never do now. No matter how late we were to where we were going (and let’s be honest, we were usually late), we would park the car and hop out for some fresh lemonade. The children selling would smile with delight when you’d pay with a dollar for a dime-a-cup gig and tell them to keep the change.

Remember when you bought us the go-cart? It was basically the coolest toy any of us had ever owned or any of our friends had ever owned. People swarmed, people flocked, people stood in LINE to ride that sweet ride. You mowed a path in the north side yard to allow for proper loops. You timed us driving around the loop, directed us on which way to turn, where else in the yard was fair game, at 25mph top speed. When you realized how popular this thing was making us, and how much more responsibility one had when purchasing such a contraption, you decided it was the right thing to do to create an official go-cart test that anyone who got behind that little wheel had to take. Lessons were given, helmets were worn, parents were informed, and official licenses were printed, signed, and presented to those who passed. For a short time, that go-cart was everything to a lot of people. A way to rebel without consequence. A freedom none of us yet had.

Remember Marshmallow? Our sweet adopted Persian cat with long white fur and a face that was squashed but would make any cold heart melt. You and I worshiped him. You weren’t always so keen on cats- he was the cat that turned your opinion on cats around. Mostly because he was more like a dog. He would greet us when we walked in the door, open his cute mouth and say ‘Hiii’ when we said it to him. He’d beg for scraps of food at the dinner table and you would unapologetically oblige, sharing scraps of hamburger or chicken with him. Of course he came back for more, and of course he loved you the most! He loved to sit on the arm of the big green chair, intently by your side, watching you as you took in the evening news. He was so special to us – a bit of a connection to mom, I think, since she originally adopted him. Her love for lost souls brought him to us, and he carried us through our loss of her.

Remember your motorcycle? You’d drive us to get groceries on it, give me rides to school, sailing along the ‘S’ curves up north among the towering oaks and maples and hemlocks. Regardless of where we were, I loved riding on the back of that rig - putting the white helmet on, stepping my foot on the foot hold and hoisting myself up behind you. The thrill of the ride was balanced by the comfort I felt with you driving. I remember the BEEP BEEP BEEP of the blinker and the ‘radio’ that you had (you singing loudly).

Remember when we went to Ireland? We rented a car and drove around the perimeter of the south half of the country, starting in Dublin where you bought me my first Guinness, we toured the brewery and listened to a fiddle band in a noisy, wonderful pub. Then across to Galway, where we admired the stone walls and chatted with quintessential Irish old men herding their sheep across narrow roads. We visited the golf course at Ballybunion, stayed at an adorable B&B on the Dingle Peninsula that smelled like salty sea. It was 2003, and George W. Bush had just bombed Iraq, so some B&B’s refused to take us in. I learned a lot about war and politics from you on that trip. We talked and didn’t talk during our drives, listened to all the CDs I had brought, looked out the windows in awe, our breath taken away by the beauty of your namesake, Kerry County, of the Blarney Castle, of the deepest greens we’d ever see.

Remember when we went to tour Boston College and Boston University and Harvard? We drove from Wisconsin across the boringly beautiful states of Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, to New York, where you enacted your dream of being a Manhattan taxi driver. We ate a corned beef sandwich with two inches of meat on it from a famous deli and walked around Central Park. Just a few hours in Manhattan and I knew I’d live there some day, maybe after college. Then we drove up the coast, stopping at a sandy dune in Connecticut to take a quick peek at the ocean before making our way to Boston. We walked through beautiful brick campuses and got informational pamphlets like either of us really believed I would go anywhere other than Madison. I was excited for college, wherever that might be. After the business end of the trip was complete, we drove north, to Acadia National Park in my distant-future-home of Maine. We camped near the huge rock escarpments overlooking the Atlantic sunrise. We woke early each morning to watch it. We rented bikes and rode around the park, taking photos of the rocky cliffs and the vast ocean. I stayed up late reading Harry Potter in the tent, reciting some of it out loud to you, it was so captivating. We made our way back home through New Hampshire, Vermont, and then Canada - long stretches of nothingness, then down to the Homestead High School gym, just in time for me to register for the year’s classes.

Remember when I got into Madison? You and Paul were in the kitchen on Buntrock and I was at the computer in the living room. I had gotten the email from UW with a letter attached. I called you guys in and we read it together. You even cracked open a Leinenkugels Honey Weiss for me - all three of us celebrated with a beer. Fast forward a few months, and you and I were driving west to my new home: the first of so many. You had all the lumber in the back of your truck to build me a loft. We had gathered all the gear I would need for my freshman year. In that car ride, I was on the precipice of my future. I had no idea what it would look like, I just knew it was starting. We arrived at the dorm and you got to work building my loft bed. I unpacked and chatted with my new roommate. I don’t remember being scared or sad while all of that was happening - just excited. You finished the bed, we put my sheets on, and we walked back out to your truck together. That’s when the tears started to flow and the reality sank in. You and I had been roomies, buddies, partners in grief and happiness and everything in between, and this was the end of that chapter.

Remember all the boyfriends I introduced you to? All the times I thought I was in love? You were so patient with my choices. Hippies, stoners, punks, just a bunch of idiots that if Madeline brought home I would have to contain my eye rolls. You kindly shook their hands, smiled as they worked hard to win your approval, took pictures of them with their arms around your daughters’ waist, dressed up for a school dance, awkwardly posing in the backyard. I truly knew how to pick them, yet you never denied me of my youthful, naive choices. You let me figure it out on my own. In the end, I picked one that I think you knew would stay. You loved Weston from the start, and not just in an “I accept him” way like all the rest, you truly respected Weston and genuinely wanted us to be together, to welcome him into our family. That made me love him more. Thanks for letting me choose my own path, letting me parade in the dumb-dumbs so that I could get to this one.

The exterior of our tri-plex had peeling poop-brown paint with pee-yellow trim. Along the side alley, we locked all of our bikes to metal pipes attached to the building, sometimes needing to wake one another due to an inability to exit the fray of lock-on-bike-on-lock-on-bike. A steep, heavily trodden stairwell led to the third-floor apartment where we all resided, our various shoes piled at the landing by a big wooden entry door. I remember using the shoes to identify who was home, who had a gentleman, who had dressed up in boots the night before, who had just gone for a run. The windows of the place were always dirty - likely never washed by the landlord, who profited off near-infantile tenants who cared nothing about the shape of the place and everything about the fact that they got to live free of their parents’ clutches while still slightly on their income.

The six of us shared four bedrooms. We called it our hodgepodge lodge. The two of us with the steadiest stream of boyfriends paid $25 more monthly in rent for our own bedrooms, while the other four shared the remaining two rooms. We would chat late into the night, snuggled up in another roommate’s bed, discussing the philosophy professor’s arrogance, the next move one of us needed to make with a boy, the highs and lows and soundtracks of our childhoods. On a given night, there were eight of us snoozing within those rooms, the lights in the living room left on because nobody had learned from their dads to walk around and do checks before sleep. My bedroom had been painted by the previous tenant in a dark mauve, which I loved. I didn’t own a bed frame and didn’t feel the need for one - I felt bohemian having a simple twin mattress on the floor covered with a down comforter and a dark orange duvet. V., S., and I spent evenings on that mattress listening to the Garden State soundtrack and Ani DiFranco and writing quotes on the wall.

The bedrooms surrounded a large living room, which didn’t have much furniture because we had all moved directly from the dorms. We had S.’s old futon and two smaller futon chairs, which were utilized by the many high school friends we hosted to experience Madison’s exuberant party scene. It was on that futon that a friend gathered us all around and told us she was gay. We didn’t tell her that we already knew. We would rent DVDs at Blockbuster and snuggle on those futons, singing along to RENT, laughing through all of the seasons of South Park. We would study, knit, do each other’s hair, and take timed photos of our outfits on those futons. We talked openly about sex. Some of us had had it; others of us hadn’t. We would celebrate when someone was done with an exam, a paper, or a relationship. We did have to reserve the futon with a Sharpie’d sign, because N. had been hogging it for makeout sessions with their boyfriend, whom we all rolled our eyes at.

The kitchen had large black-and-white linoleum tiles and gingham curtains, which S.’s mom made and hung the day we all moved in while she rolled her eyes heavily. The wooden cupboards had heavy doors that didn’t fully close, mostly containing twelve-packs of Dr. Pepper, packages of instant ramen, and so many different brands of peanut butter. We had a standard fridge, which five of us shared, and a mini fridge perched on a small table that B. insisted on having to herself. More often than not, S. would eat stovetop popcorn for dinner. When someone actually cooked a meal, it was a big deal, and we lovingly shared and adored it, fawning over actual pesto. Sunday night family dinners with our neighbors meant spaghetti and meatballs.

The apartment had one single bathroom. If you were showering, there was most certainly someone waiting for you, and if you needed to use the toilet - which was oddly low to the ground - someone was most certainly in the shower. I remember showering with a boyfriend while N. brushed her teeth, chatting with me about an upcoming exam. She didn’t know he was there with me, quietly washing my hair. The bathroom’s fan system was no match for six girls. Damp towels stayed damp, the floor was heaped with dirty clothes and makeup bags for lack of counter space, the mirror permanently fogged. I think there was an old washer and dryer in the basement, four floors down. I don’t remember using it often.

V. had a Honda Civic, and once a week we would all pile into it and go to the grocery store, each with varying lengths of lists based on the stipends our parents allotted us. I had a part-time job at a smoothie shop and mostly ate smoothies for whichever meal my shift overlapped with, and had to keep the majority of my paycheck saved for rent and the apartment’s cumulative budding interest in weed. Most of the time in her car we listened to popular rap music I wasn’t aware of and was impressed by V.’s knowledge of. I remember on one of the car rides, the song “Meet Virginia” came on the radio, and we all got excited, singing loudly. As the song continued, we all got quieter, progressively, so that by the end we were all staring out the windows, mumbling the lyrics to ourselves.

We spent a lot of our time with a group of boys we lovingly called the Shorties because they were all shorter than us. One of them threw up on me one evening. None of us are married to the boys we were with then. After a hairy breakup, the shower boyfriend scaled the tri-plex and entered my bedroom via the porch, which had a ragged yellow couch and some white plastic chairs that would tumble into the corner during rainstorms. The couch, always slightly damp, was where we would have our best ideas late at night while smoking cigarettes and weed and drinking light beer. We would make up songs that we sang into the dark, still playing pretend in our own ways, still children.

During the winter, we heard raccoons running back and forth the length of the apartment above us, in the attic directly overhead. After weeks of listening to the scurrying night after night, N.’s boyfriend set a trap, and the pair ultimately met their demise. We were too afraid to look at the dead raccoons or handle the trap ourselves, so grateful that we had strong and brave men in our lives to take care of such things.

We all had Razr cell phones and had to use T9 for texting. Most of the time, we left them at home because we really only used them to call our parents. What was originally called The Facebook began while we lived in that apartment, and we dipped our toes in, only slightly amused. Pope John Paul II died while we lived there, so we printed out a big photo of his face and put it on our fridge, having a mock funeral for him one Saturday night, complete with light beer and weed.

Occasionally we would go on walks around the nearby neighborhood of big, beautiful professors’ houses, dreaming of days when we would have all of the things we saw in the windows. One night, we heard a man playing bagpipes in his front yard, and we stood there for a long time, listening, leaning our heads on one another’s shoulders. We were each preparing to go on our respective study abroad trips the following year, encouraging and inspiring one another to do what felt right: Sevilla, Paris, Aix-en-Provence, Costa Rica, Nairobi, and London. We had plans for the future and couldn’t wait for them to get started - couldn’t wait to explore, fall in love, move around the world, get jobs, have babies, enjoy the luxury of a full bed frame, with that bagpipe song, the hum of that Badger chant quietly locked inside.

Achy cramps and perimenopausal dips in equilibrium that are so unnoticeable at first because it really could be anything it could be that I have a lot of meetings that day or that kids keep shooting kids in school or something I ate or another world war or our brains going numb due to digital overconsumption, but it’s probably just - yep, it’s just that it’s that time of the month.

A pain in my lower back from sitting too long at this godforsaken desk with these damn monitors staring pitch black back at me with no love or feelings or no decency to tell me ‘sit up straight, young lady, your dowager hump is beginning to show!’ A kink in my neck, yep that’s the one, the one I dread and I dread and I sit up and stay aware and then I see a photo of my hunched body, the curve of my upper back so distinct, so… so… old.

An ingrown toenail that won’t quit for years, just living quietly on and on after a botched pedicure. Then it gets stubbed somehow and every step it’s felt in a rhythmic throb, throb, throb and somehow the dog always steps on that exact spot on that exact left big toe.

Conjunctivitis: an ‘itis’ so disgusting, so treacherous, you can hear the discomfort oozing from its very name. So contagious I wipe every door knob and faucet and light switch and toilet flusher and hard surface with a bleach wipe only to go over them once more for good measure.

A cold, a dumb dumb cold with an endless faucet of a runny nose, red eyes, a sore throat so raw that it hurts to swallow and it hurts to laugh and it hurts to talk and a fever so hot and so icy cold at the same time. Sprouted from nowhere or maybe the movie theater last week or maybe that restaurant we went to or that man coughing on the plane yes it was him that’s where I got it he was patient zero, I can rest now because I know it was HIM.

The flu where everything sounds loud, the touch of a blanket or a pillow is heavier, and gravity is a weighted blanket. That can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t walk flu where I lose all sense of reality for days, wash the sheets each night because I’m a puddle of sweat, even water tastes bad, flu.

A stomach virus brought home from school from a family of five who has had it throughout the last two weeks and the youngest left a speck of it from beneath his fingernail on the playground and my daughter played on the monkey bars and waltzed into lunch afterwards, ingesting it, unbeknownst to her, unbeknownst to any of us as we wake in the night to her crying out and delivering the sad sad news that here it is, dripping down the tall wooden legs of her bunk bed.

That sneaky bastard Covid that is still here and still stealthy and still stalking our every move and still stealing lives and days and sanity. That word sometimes formalized with it’s full name triggering memories of lockdown, of isolation, of paper hearts taped on windows and maps with deep dark red where it was showing up worst and not knowing how long it would be until we could hug our people again.

The name of an actor or the thing I was looking for when I walked into the kitchen or what I was about to say before you told me that story or where I put my water glass, all gone in a cloud of forgotten things floating somewhere just out of reach. Crosswords and reading novels and swearing off scrolling and eating Omega-3s and antioxidants will help make sure it doesn’t stick, it doesn’t settle in and freak me and my loved ones out as they (and I) slowly slip away.

In the shower, a stone of a bump felt as I slide a bar of soap across the soft skin beneath my armpit, painful to the touch, an abnormal test result, the worst news of the worst news finally coming for me.

Two coal black crows on the garbage can

Ephemeral ice formations on the banks of the Presumpscot River

Fiery bush branches against the snow, and a pink and orange sunset

Sea ducks on the Stroudwater and the salt-rank smell of low tide

Two chickadees hiding in a bramble on a brick ledge overlooking the graveyard

A deer family crossing the road, a hawk, turkeys, and rolling hills

A male cardinal chasing a female cardinal through the snowstorm

Apricity felt in the warm sunlight on my face in the cold

Clear, glassy, long drooping icicles

Mergansers bobbing for fish in Casco Bay, a bright crescent moon

Hundreds of black tree trunks against stark white snow

Robins chirping outside the window

Icebergs floating in the changing sea

A sparrow, a dog, and blue pine trees

Deep snow and bright red berries on an otherwise empty tree

Two anoles on the wall outside the window and clean, warm sand

Goats, pink bougainvillea flowers, enormous cacti, white egrets

Four hundred green iguanas lurking in trees and on roofs, pelicans and friendly sea turtles

Mangrove trees, a sunken red cave filled with blue water, flying fish and sea anemones

Wandering hens, grass in the wind that moved like waves

Sheepshead fish, sergeant major fish, roaming cows right up close

Nude bodies flaunting up and down, snails and tide pools

Parrots, mourning doves, cockatoos, parakeets

Light flakes of snow dancing in the cold gray wind

Pinecones and pine needles, still-green moss and yelling gulls

Sharp-shinned hawk in the neighbors’ yard eyeing their chickens

Crunching snow beneath a big bright moon in the cobalt sky

But the bus always emptied me at Graciliano’s, an elegant buffet-style restaurant in the heart of Belvedere, Belo Horizonte, the capital city of southeastern Brazil’s Minas Gerais state. I slid the carved wooden bench forward on the restaurant’s deck to open it’s enormous doors. “Bom dia,” I said to the black-clad waiters and the women sloshing soapy water over marble floors. “Bom dia” up the silver-painted stairs, past the Homens and the Senhoras, into the fluorescent kingdom of white tile and heat. “Bom dia” to my coworkers as I stood at my locker, which held a white shirt and an apron splattered carrot-orange and zucchini-green. I pulled on my Pumas, tucked my hair into a Brewers baseball hat, and inhaled the rising warmth from the tower of ovens. Fresh bread. Baked salmon. Boiled sweet coffee ladled into dented metal cups and passed from hand to hand like communion.

The radio in the corner of the kitchen was rickety and merciless: always on and always loud. Instead of Brazilian jazz or Seu Jorge, it delivered static-interrupted American pop on an endless loop. By the end of three months, I could sing along perfectly to songs I’d never liked in the first place. The cooks sang too, confidently mangling English lyrics like we all do. Because of this music, translation became my accidental specialty. One afternoon, the sweet older woman in charge of pasta asked me what “smack that” meant. I didn’t know the Portuguese equivalent, so I smacked her bottom. The kitchen detonated in laughter. Zak, the balding purchaser who wandered about belting Tracy Chapman in a dramatic, tortured way, once asked me what “Baby, can I hold you tonight” meant. I arranged the words I knew: “Bed, you, me, tonight.” After that, I avoided eye contact.

Through the morning hours, I grilled. Then I chopped. Then I boiled. Then I chopped more. I garnished giant white platters while Portuguese ricocheted off tile - yelled, laughed, whispered through gossipy teeth. It was a society with its own rules and rhythms. To belong, I had to listen carefully, learn quickly, and smile even when I had no idea why everyone else was laughing.

Gizelle and I shared the produce station, spending our time chopping and managing broccoli, papayas, enormous fresh carrots, lettuce and zucchini. She was my age, with a pear-shaped sturdiness and an 18-month-old daughter whose graphic birth album she carried proudly in her bag. Gizelle spoke no English. I spoke Portuguese like a toddler with ambition. As we worked, we taught each other haphazardly, holding up objects and both saying the word in our own language simultaneously, then swapping to make sure we heard the other’s right. “Knife!” Faca. “Pineapple!” Abacaxi. Shoe! Sapato. We laughed so much that at times we got into trouble.

“You in good mood,” she would say, eyeing me suspiciously.

“I am.”

“What you do at night?”

“Read. Walk. Call my sister.”

“You talk to family much. Dad Monday. Sister Saturday. When talk to mom?”

The words I needed were heavy and few. “When I had eleven years, mom… cancer.” I pointed upward. “Mom of me—does not have life.”

Gizelle nodded slowly. “Mom of my husband—does not have life also.”

Gizelle invited me to dinner at her house one evening after work. Her commute was much longer than mine - an hour and a half each way. As the bus wound up the craggy streets toward the favela neighborhood where Gizelle lived with her mother, husband, and daughter, through the rosewood and mahogany and banana trees, the homes became less defined and the folks became more barefoot. I had become used to folks staring at my white face throughout my time in Thailand, so felt less phased by it than I would have been had I not experienced it before. Looking out the window, I realized that we worked in the same fluorescent room but in different Brazils. In her small kitchen with what seemed like very little to work with in comparison with our enormous spreads at Graciliano, she and her mother made an exquisite Brazilian feast of pao de quejio, warm rice and a traditional pork and bean stew called feijoada with pineapple juice and homemade chocolate brigadiero for dessert.

During my time in Brazil, I spent a few weekends in Rio de Janiero, eating açai from street vendors, running around the enormous Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon, climbing to the corcovado, and of course, lounging on the beach. On Ipanema, there is no such thing as personal space. From above, the sand must look like a patchwork quilt of umbrellas: red, blue, striped, pounded so tightly into the earth that only shy pockets of sand peek through. Miles of beach, miles of striped chairs and thonged bottoms. The smell of sunscreen and cigarettes tangled with fresh watermelon balanced on a vendor’s brow and the warm, salty Atlantic air. A young woman sprawled in the sun while an enormous octogenarian adjusted his Speedo a foot away. When I stood to try to reach the water, I had to tiptoe between empty coconuts, beer cozies, legs, breasts, back hair, until finally the waves claimed me. The waves were powerful, and each one was thick with bodies. Even the ocean participates in the crowding.

One evening while jogging along the Lagoon, I felt the city inhale. A low hum. A dull roar. A stark, white silence. And then, explosion. Fireworks. Screams. Fog horns. I looked up at the apartments; windows were flung open, voices spilling out. In the distance, Christ the Redeemer seemed almost to glow with delight. I turned a corner and found a pub vomiting people into the street, grown men crying with raised glasses. Somewhere in the chaos rose a melody I recognized: “Olè, olè olè olè…” A goal. A single goal had shaken concrete and sky. For a moment, I felt that if the entire city jumped at once, Brazil might tilt slightly closer to the sea.

I arrived in Brazil thinking I would learn about food. And I did: about how to properly julienne and how to make roasted pear with gorgonzola drizzled with honey and the architecture of garnishes and the importance of afternoon espresso. But more than that, I learned how close is too close. Too close is a sneeze on page 237 of my favorite book. Too close is a Speedo one foot from your thigh. Too close is a city trembling in unison over a single kick of a ball. Too close is telling a near-stranger, in broken language, that your mother is dead. And yet, on Ipanema, in the bus, in the kitchen heat, in a friendly favela kitchen, closeness felt less like intrusion and more like initiation. Brazil pressed itself against me: loud, fragrant, crowded, contradictory, until there was no space left for distance. By the end of that summer, with a few more knife skills and Portuguese phrases in my pocket, I no longer needed much room at all.

I want to let my mind wander while brushing my teeth. Let a thought finish its own sentence. I want to pick up the laundry in the bedrooms and start a load, make coffee and oatmeal to the sound of the humming washing machine rather than trying to finish the podcast episode I started last night. I want my airpods to stay snug in their case. I want to let boredom visit without trying to cure it. I want to notice how long it actually takes the kettle to boil. How steam sounds. How waiting feels. I want to go for a walk in my neighborhood and pause to witness a beautiful tree silhouetted against the bright blue sky. I want to look at it and not pull out my phone with a gloved hand to take a photo, seeing a message and getting distracted, then haphazardly taking a photo I’ll look at maybe once, if at all. I want instead to breathe for a few breaths with the tree, thank it, and move on.

I want a day where the spaces in between are filled without this thief of a device, without hyper focus on what’s next, what’s new, what needs attention. To eat, just eat. Poop, just poop. Watch an entire movie without touching the damn thing once. Go to a restaurant on a whim because I’m passing it by and just look at the menu when I get there. I want to wonder. I want to cook something from my stack of cookbooks, not from an app. I’ll find an old dog-eared recipe we loved from 2023 and follow my handwritten notes at the bottom of the page (less salt, almonds instead of pecans).

I want to be present at work, solving problems from end to end without distraction. I don’t want to multi-task. I want to single-task. To close loops. To finish one thing before starting the next instead of scattering my attention like birdseed. I want to solve a problem slowly enough that I surprise myself with the solution. I want to end the workday knowing what I actually did, not just what I responded to.

I want to spend the time I have each day as though hours were dollars and minutes were cents - spend it like I have a limited amount in my time savings account. I want to spend it with my daughter, not with this damn thing tethered to my hands, looking into her big blue eyes as she tells me about the tunnel she built at recess, shows me her drawings, and asks me questions. I want to spend it with the people in my life, the ones right in front of me in the flesh. I want to spend it outside, moving my body. Thinking. Thinking! I want to spend it thinking!

I want to go to bed reading a book and not scrolling, consuming bit after bit of nonsense. I want to rest my brain on one single story. Be immersed in the richness of a long form of written word, crafted to not shout at me but to lull me, envelope me, help me escape quietly and intentionally.

Of course, I need to check and see if that person responded, respond to an email, read through the Signal chats that are piling up, re-read the texts I’ve left alone since yesterday. I need to make the little red circle with the number in it disappear. I need to react with a heart or a laughing emoji so they know that I care, that I am here. I need to check the weather, and the tides, and what time it is, and the bank account balance. I need to make that doctor’s appointment, reserve a swim lane for next week, put something in the calendar. I need to add garlic to the shared grocery list. I need to see what people are doing and saying and raging about and celebrating and sharing on Instagram. I need to find out for Madeline if John Hancock’s face has ever been on a coin, the name of a certain plant in the neighbor’s garden, when to begin winter sowing lupine seeds, what other movies Sissy Spacek has been in!

I’ll set aside time later for all of that, because now is the only now. I want the phone to become a tool again, not a habitat. The average American spends 4 hours and 37 minutes on their phone daily. That’s more than a day per week. When I think about the hours and hours and hours we are wasting on these things, juxtaposed with the finite amount of time we have to live out our lives, it reminds me of something the great Willy Wonka once said, “We have so much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it.”

I keep thinking about the families who are being torn apart, the babies being tear gassed in their car seats while their mothers are detained. I keep watching videos of people being dragged out of their houses and beaten with canisters and the butts of guns, kicking and screaming that they’re citizens, kicking and screaming that they don’t have a record, kicking and screaming for their children inside. I keep thinking about what it must feel like to shelter in place, without a way to get to my job, without the freedom to go to the grocery store. // My friend in Minneapolis, taking elderly neighbors to a protest in the bitter cold, hearing a cacophony of honks from cars passing by. They laughed and cried and danced to keep their circulation going in their boots and mittens.

I keep thinking about Renee Good and how she had just dropped her children off at school seven minutes away from where she was shot, and how they didn’t see her after school, and won’t ever, again. // My friend here in Portland who raised $3,000 with an Instagram story to buy grocery store gift cards for a local nonprofit who is distributing them along with warmth kits and Immigration Rights cards. The people all over the country who are seeing this horror go down in these sanctuary states and cities, and giving giving giving all they can. It’s all they can do, and it’s a lot.

I keep thinking about the ICU nurse Alex Pretti, who, in one brave moment was stepping between ICE agents and a woman who they had shoved violently to the ground, and in the next moment was shot ten times on the cold cement. // The thousands, the sea, of my kindred friends, coworkers and previous neighbors in Minnesota who turned out in subzero temperatures with ski goggles and balaclavas chanting ICE OUT NOW on Friday, January 23rd in one of the largest general strikes in history.

I keep thinking about my coworker who’s brother is dying of leukemia in his hometown in Southern India, but he can’t travel to go see him because he has an H1B work visa and if he leaves the country there is a very good chance he will not be let back in, or need to wait for an appointment that may eventually be cancelled based on stories he is hearing from friends. So his brother will die and he will be here and that will be the story. // The people stepping out of their homes with candles lit on Saturday evening in quiet vigil against the deep black night sky to remember the folks who have been injured or killed on our streets in this dystopic and unrecognizable America.

I keep thinking of Micheline Ntumba, a Congolese immigrant and a mother of four in my daughter’s school district here in Portland, Maine, who was detained on Wednesday. Micheline is legally approved to work in the United States. Her four children are now alone. I keep thinking of all of my daughter’s classmates who haven’t shown up to school this last week since the ICE presence has ramped up with ‘Operation Catch of the Day.’ I keep closing my eyes each night as a parent wondering how it got this hard. Over the last year, we have been intaking the various messages from the school superintendent, titled : How to talk to your child about ICE, How to talk to your child about active shooters, about DEI discrimination and harassment. // Every single woman I know in Minneapolis, Minnesota and Portland, Oregon and Portland, Maine. Folks who have always done this and folks who have never before spoken up, speaking up. Activated and screaming. Organizing and gathering. Grieving and resting. Rising and working every hour of every day these last few weeks.

I keep thinking of Liam Ramos, a 5-year-old Minnesota boy, with his Spider-Man backpack, as the hand of a much larger masked ICE agent holds onto him as if he were a flight risk. An oversized blue hat with bunny ears partially covers his face as he stares ahead blankly in the photo being shared widely. How he and his father are now in an immigration detention center in Texas while our country’s Vice President defends ICE’s actions. // The local organization packing and delivering food to at risk families, soliciting notes from their followers, of love, hope, motivation and inspiration, which they will put into coat pockets, pant pockets, and boot soles. They ask that folks “write quotes and messages that would flip the light on deep within us on dark days.”

These are dark, dark days, but like always, there is light.

****If you’ve felt angered and saddened by what is happening to our neighbors in all of the states where this is happening but aren’t sure where to turn, I am collecting donations to put toward two reputable non-profits (Maine Needs and Food for All) I have been working with these last few weeks to help get food and supplies to families sheltering in place. Feel free to Venmo me with the note ‘Light in the Dark,’ and I will put it to good use.

New Yorkers look up at me

In a pile unread

*

I sit here in Maine

At this long wooden table

Made in the midwest

*

I want one hour

Spent away from this device

Hide it in a drawer

*

Gray clouds and gray news

As we trudge through a new year

When will there be sun

*

How long after do

You leave up your Christmas tree

We hold on for weeks

*

What a difference

A walk around the block makes

Someone wise said that

*

Dishes toys and clothes

All over the house so still

I know she needs me

*

I love you so much

I’m so very sorry that

I love you so much

Toddlers move through their busy world of exploration from blades of grass, to leaves, to the Tupperware bowl in the cupboard, examining all facets of each new thing. The discoveries of the properties of each new object or event they encounter in their day are like little miracles all day long in their minds.

If we take a moment to slow down and relive these very same miracles, we may just encounter the child within us. Young children can so easily find the magic in even the most simple events. The unexpected bonus of becoming a parent is the second chance to look at the world through the eyes of a child. The likelihood of finding a miracle is very possible.

Being the mother of just one child, I am able to give that one child my entire heart. I don’t have a favorite child or any guilt that I love her the most. I get to tell her each night that she’s my favorite thing in the whole wide world and I get to mean it. But, I ask myself often, who else could there have been? What other beautiful creature could Weston and I have made together? People say your heart just makes room for another. What would it be like to fill the spaces of my heart that have the potential to be filled?

Being a family of three, day to day decisions are easy and relatively conflict-free. I love that we can go out to eat and play games and decide what to do on a Saturday afternoon, just the three of us, with minimal debates or needing to trade off. Nobody pouts because they didn’t get to choose what to do and who gets more attention from which of us at any given time. But, I ask myself often, what will this do to her? Would debating with a younger sibling provide her with tools to face similar challenges in the future?

We love the quiet, calm life we live. In our house, we are able to live in the present. We have very little chaos. Our schedule is full but not unbearably stressful. We have time in between soccer practices and sleepovers and play dates and piano practices to be creative or lazy or productive. We can play wiffleball and go on hikes and note down each of the birds we see in our yard. We can give each other space when we need it. There is only one set of clothes to round up each season and size up each year, only one pair of soccer cleats to replace. We have only one teacher to get to know per year and fully dig into school with, and only one set of germs to wrangle. I often ask myself if I would just adapt to this way of living, this chaos and these activities piled upon one another. I probably would. Would the fullness of more just give us more joy? Would we find out more about ourselves? Would I be less phased when an illness cropped up, more prepared for unknowns when so many appear out of thin air?

We can explore the world without having to use up multiple paychecks. We can show Madeline how much more there is out there. She’s been to London and California and Colorado and New York City, Canada, Puerto Rico, the Azores, Mexico, Germany and Austria. She gets to live the way we live, and she gets to love what we love. We are never trying desperately to get away from her like I hear some parents of multiples say. If anything, we crave more time with her. But, I often think about whether we are being overhasty in showing her all of this. Is she seeing it all before it makes an impact? Is there beauty in letting her have these adventures later? Does she wish she had someone to fall asleep next to on the nests we make on the floors of our AirBnB’s?

We have time, space and energy to welcome in exchange students, invite neighbors for dinner and backyard bonfires, and adopt (or hatch) experimental pets. She calls our dog her brother and the ducks we had this past year her children. Whoever comes next (hedgehog? rat? chameleon?) we can accommodate. Each guest and creature brings us joy and educates us and fills the house and yard with newness. But, in the back of my mind I often ask myself, does a pet replace a sibling? Can it give the same amount of love, lifelong companionship, friendship? How often and how deeply does she feel loneliness, and does it bother her?

I have space for my own passions and friends and interests. Alongside being a mother and spending time with Madeline, I have the ability to help people, fight fascism, write, read, cold dip, and do yoga. I do not feel entirely winded and floored and knocked down by motherhood. In fact, she is one of my passions. When she goes off into the world in nine short years, how will I let go? I will miss her artwork on the walls, her shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor, the smell of her tangled hair in the morning after she wakes up, the stuffed animals tucked in random places on the couch. I worry that the letting go will be harder since I had just one. The emptiness I predict is too painful to imagine.

Without a sibling, she won’t have someone who has the potential to hurt her in the future, have a toxic relationship with, be bullied by. She won’t have someone who knows her fears and pushes her buttons and quietly and steadily competes with her. I often think, though, that she won’t have someone to commiserate with as we get older and crazier. Her babies won’t have cousins on this side of her future family. She won’t be able to confide in someone who walked right beside her as she moves through childhood, adolescence, young adulthood. She won’t always have us. Who will she have?

I feel deep sadness when I hear the question of a brother or sister come into her ears, or the answer come out of her mouth. I recently overheard a friend’s child say during a gathering, “Madeline doesn’t have any brothers or sisters!!” and it jolted my heart. She doesn’t. She doesn’t have siblings but she has an amazing set of cousins on both sides of the family who give her love and support and who I trust will continue to do so throughout her life. She doesn’t have siblings but she has friends who will hold her secrets, fight with her and challenge her to bolster up her tool box of situations in the same way that siblings might.

Within this story of my only child, there are equal parts pain and joy. Through it and so many other chapters of my life I have learned the art of holding two things of the same magnitude at the same time: the pain of what could have been and the joy that we have an absolute miracle in our midst every day. While the former creeps in regularly with its own predictable rhythm, I choose daily to focus on the latter.

I remember her mostly within the walls of my childhood home in Wisconsin. She was in the kitchen cooking meatloaf, tater tot casserole, and pigs in a blanket. She would steal potato chips off my plate while we ate lunch. She was regularly making banana pudding with Nilla Wafers, or baking fudgy brownies or zucchini bread to bring to someone she loved. She always let me lick the batter from the bowl. She adored dessert of all kids: blueberry pie, candy corn, circus peanuts, marshmallow toffee, Pralines n’ Cream ice cream, crispy chocolate chip cookies, and Hostess Snowballs. She was often doing the dishes and looking out the back window to the yard, wiping the countertops, or scraping the gunk from under the metal of the stove burner with a butter knife while talking on the phone. She would sit at her alcove desk tucked into the corner of the kitchen, surrounded by striped floral wallpaper, drinking either a LaCroix or a Miller High Life and listening to the messages on the answering machine. With a number two pencil, she would be noting down soccer practice dates and times on the calendar, planning a birthday party for one of us, making a shopping list, or writing a thank you card.

In her bedroom, on her big, soft bed, she would read to us aloud, turning the pages one after another, the three of us cuddled close to her, soon just my sister and I, and then just me. I felt so close to her, breathing in her scent, hearing the crispness of her ‘s’s. She would rub my back when I was crying in that bed after a nightmare, while dad softly snored next to us. In the bathroom, which was attached to their bedroom, she could be found maintaining incredible hygiene. She kept her fingernails cut short and filed them often. She didn’t wear makeup, and brushed her hair with a simple purple comb. She wore it sometimes permed, sometimes feathered, sometimes short, sometimes dyed chestnut. She smelled like Carmex, Oil of Olay, and dental floss. I remember looking at the L and the R on her white contact case on the bathroom counter, the blue lenses floating in clear liquid at the end of the day. She’d give herself breaks regularly, soaking in the sage green bathtub. After leaving her alone for as long as I possibly could, I’d climb in and lay with her in the warm water and she’d whisper to me that my body would look like hers one day.

In the living room she could be found knitting, listening to the stereo system play records and cassette tapes of songs like Don’t Worry, Be Happy, or Imagine, or Good Vibrations, singing along just slightly off key. On Saturday mornings we’d find her in there vacuuming, dusting, washing the windows inside and out, arranging and planning and placing objects here and there. In the den, when she’d hoped nobody was watching, she would work out to Jane Fonda exercise videos. She would diligently and neatly label our VHS tapes with a TV recording of Lassie or America’s Funniest Home Videos. She would fold laundry in the basement on a table next to the washer and dryer - each of our clothes lined up in neat piles next to one another. She would spend evenings in the nearby work room organizing photos or wrapping gifts on the green felt of the pool table.

She was the epicenter of so many beautiful Christmases. She knit bright red and green Mary Maxim patterned stockings for every on of her nieces and nephews and for each of her children. We helped her place decorations around the house, figurines and wooden music boxes pulled from a bin and unfurled each year smelling of the last. She wrote on each ornament with the year, gifter and receiver, making sure those memories stayed with us on each one of our future Christmas trees. One Christmas morning, she gave us a package carefully wrapped in red paper. It was a soft white cat who we named Marshmallow. She cried when I told her I knew about Santa.

She would spend sunny afternoons in the back yard hanging clothes to dry on white lines stretched between three maple trees. In the summer she could be found planting and weeding and harvesting the vegetable garden. She showed me how to suck the sugar out of a clover flower, how to build a fairy house out of pine needles and acorn tops and small stones. She fawned over cosmos, queen Anne’s lace, lilac and eucalyptus. She celebrated seeing a squirrel, a mama deer, and a porcupine. She felt sorry for ants when we stepped on them. She felt sorry for dogs who were in kennels, barking to be let out. She felt sorry for the families of the animals her brothers hunted. She filled so many bird feeders with seeds and suet and orange slices and delighted as she watched them enjoy each bite.

I remember her hands, calloused but also smooth, holding mine on the way into the Piggly Wiggly. I remember the comfort of her beautiful soft cheeks, her smooth freckled arms and the long scar down the inside of her right forearm from an incident with a fence when she was young. I remember her simple gold wedding band and small diamond engagement ring, and her silver bracelet with a little bird and sunset painted on it. I remember her white Greenpeace sweatshirt, her light pink sweater, her jean jumper dresses, her World Wildlife Fund panda tote bag, her crisp white Keds sneakers, her wide rimmed glasses. I remember her pet names for so many things. Urinating was piddling. My dad Kerry was nicknamed Larry. His employees were little men. I was nicknamed Lucy. Farting was shooting a bunny. Fingers were pinners.

Beyond our home, of course, she was busy too. She was at the wheel of our blue station wagon, and then later, a white GMC conversion van, both of which she would ‘dance’ by pressing intermittently on the brake at stoplights. I would watch her as she drove, wearing Aviator sunglasses and chewing a piece of Big Red cinnamon gum, cut in half to save money. In the back seat of the van while on long road trips, she would teach me how to make baby footprints with my hand on the steamy windows. She walked our dogs religiously around the neighborhood and at the dog park, encouraging us to join her even though most of us were unwilling. I watched from the bleachers as she bounced up and down in the water with women much older than her at water exercise classes at the YMCA. She’d say “I wish I was in that river in a canoe,” as we crossed over every bridge. She went rollerblading on the winding paths of Lake Michigan’s lakefront in downtown Milwaukee, unable to stop because the stopper was so worn down. On family camping trips, she could put up a tent or start a fire or unhook a fish single handedly. She sang songs from The Sound of Music on the chairlift at Ski Brule, the place where she and my dad taught us all how to ski.

She didn’t have a job. Or a paid one, I should say. I always knew she was busy volunteering when she’d leave the house, but I had no idea until after she was gone how much she was doing. She was teaching young parents how to gently guide their children through challenging phases at a local nonprofit. She was putting on puppet shows for a program to help children understand that differences should be celebrated, not dismissed or made fun of. She was working on a program for school bussing between the inner city and our suburban schools to give lower income students a chance to shine. She was in the giant lecture hall of the high school weekly, participating in the PTA. She organized fund raisers and charity events and felt empathy for and spent time giving to every single soul she encountered.

For those eleven years, she was everywhere and everything to me and so many others. Though our time together was fleeting, my mom gave me so much to go off of, so much of the core of who I am. That time when she was alive and well has filled the thirty years following somehow with so much richness and intimacy, and each year around this time I always say her passing feels like yesterday.