After looking at and reading about your grief, I also know that I will grieve. I will grieve my mother. She has not died, but she is losing her memory and each day I speak to her, it is painfully evident that she is hanging on to cope with the loss of memory. She repeats a lot now. She says the same information over and over. But I don’t mind, because one day, I may not hear her voice any more. So, I listen to her voice. And hope that I will always remember its tenor, its tonality, its pitch. I hope I will capture her moods and how her voice inflects. I love her. And I hate to imagine life without her. But it is inevitable.

After looking at and reading about your grief, I also know that I will grieve. I will grieve my mother. She has not died, but she is losing her memory and each day I speak to her, it is painfully evident that she is hanging on to cope with the loss of memory. She repeats a lot now. She says the same information over and over. But I don’t mind, because one day, I may not hear her voice any more. So, I listen to her voice. And hope that I will always remember its tenor, its tonality, its pitch. I hope I will capture her moods and how her voice inflects. I love her. And I hate to imagine life without her. But it is inevitable.

After looking at and reading about your grief, I also know that I will grieve. I will grieve my mother. She has not died, but she is losing her memory and each day I speak to her, it is painfully evident that she is hanging on to cope with the loss of memory. She repeats a lot now. She says the same information over and over. But I don’t mind, because one day, I may not hear her voice any more. So, I listen to her voice. And hope that I will always remember its tenor, its tonality, its pitch. I hope I will capture her moods and how her voice inflects. I love her. And I hate to imagine life without her. But it is inevitable.

After looking at and reading about your grief, I also know that I will grieve. I will grieve my mother. She has not died, but she is losing her memory and each day I speak to her, it is painfully evident that she is hanging on to cope with the loss of memory. She repeats a lot now. She says the same information over and over. But I don’t mind, because one day, I may not hear her voice any more. So, I listen to her voice. And hope that I will always remember its tenor, its tonality, its pitch. I hope I will capture her moods and how her voice inflects. I love her. And I hate to imagine life without her. But it is inevitable.

After looking at and reading about your grief, I also know that I will grieve. I will grieve my mother. She has not died, but she is losing her memory and each day I speak to her, it is painfully evident that she is hanging on to cope with the loss of memory. She repeats a lot now. She says the same information over and over. But I don’t mind, because one day, I may not hear her voice any more. So, I listen to her voice. And hope that I will always remember its tenor, its tonality, its pitch. I hope I will capture her moods and how her voice inflects. I love her. And I hate to imagine life without her. But it is inevitable.

After looking at and reading about your grief, I also know that I will grieve. I will grieve my mother. She has not died, but she is losing her memory and each day I speak to her, it is painfully evident that she is hanging on to cope with the loss of memory. She repeats a lot now. She says the same information over and over. But I don’t mind, because one day, I may not hear her voice any more. So, I listen to her voice. And hope that I will always remember its tenor, its tonality, its pitch. I hope I will capture her moods and how her voice inflects. I love her. And I hate to imagine life without her. But it is inevitable.

After looking at and reading about your grief, I also know that I will grieve. I will grieve my mother. She has not died, but she is losing her memory and each day I speak to her, it is painfully evident that she is hanging on to cope with the loss of memory. She repeats a lot now. She says the same information over and over. But I don’t mind, because one day, I may not hear her voice any more. So, I listen to her voice. And hope that I will always remember its tenor, its tonality, its pitch. I hope I will capture her moods and how her voice inflects. I love her. And I hate to imagine life without her. But it is inevitable.

I miss you. You goofball of a dog. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there in your last moments. I’ll see you again. I love you.

He was the pillar of our family – any structure or cohesiveness we had dissolved once he was gone, so it hits me fresh once in a while, when my mom and her siblings are arguing, or when holidays come around.

I only have snippets left, really.

My grandpa took me on my first and only crabbing and clamming trips.

He supplied with piles of books as a kid – I rarely read them, but I have a deep affection for books, now, and heap them on my nieces.

I lived in San Diego until I was 4. He once flew down from Oregon and helped me plant radishes.

He’s buried about a block from where I work, so I occasionally pick up a plain black coffee and a maple bar, and walk over to share with him – he gets the coffee and I get the maple bar.

Two and a half hours outside Chicago on the Illinois River, there’s a stretch of gravel path that runs between the train tracks and the river, where the tugs pull the parges under tall rusted-out bridges. My grandfather would walk me down there in the summers, past concrete pylons swarming with boxelders. We’d explore the beach on the south-end of the path. Once, we came on a coyote skull, dried to the bone and bleached white by the sun. We’d always skip stones there along the flowing surface of the river.