My daughter Emily began transforming our yard when she was 16. It was the height of the pandemic. We were sitting in our antigravity chairs staring at a tangle of vines that had formed a canopy around two dead ash trees.

The vines, plus the trees, plus an overgrowth of weeds, bushes, and once-tidy plants formed a barrier between our yard and the rest of the neighborhood. It was 2020, the start of the pandemic, and three years after we’d lost Emily’s sister to cancer. The yard, much like our grief, had closed in around us.

That was the summer that Emily started asking questions. When were we going to clear out the thicket of weeds? When were we going to cut down those trees? Why weren’t we taking care of the yard the way we once had? Don’t get me wrong. We’ve never had a tidy yard, but that year it looked abandoned. We were the neighborhood hoarding house.

Emily got me chopping weeds and ripping out vines. I called the town to see if they would remove the dead trees. They were perched at the edge of the yard, close enough to the road to be considered a hazard. The town came a month later and the trees disappeared. Even the stumps were removed. What remained was an absolute jungle of wineberries, creeping Charlie, oriental bittersweet, and jewelweed.

It took us the entire summer to carve a path through the mess. When all of it was gone, a bald hillside leading down to the street remained. Emily claimed it as her own. She began planting flowers there.

Hard to believe it’s already been six years since the pandemic, since the ash trees came down, since Emily discovered she had some power over her surroundings and on my own decision-making process. I listened to her that year—and she sorely needed to be heard. I’d been curled up in my own misery for most of her adolescence, after all.

She was right about the yard. It needed our attention.

We planted flowers against the house and in a very small bed near the driveway. We tidied up areas we’d neglected for years. We burned down the old chicken coop. It had been sitting at the top of the driveway (chickenless) for over a decade, run through with wineberries (those damn vines) and other weeds—an absolute eyesore. My daughter Ana had loved the chickens. We’d given them away the year she was diagnosed with cancer. They were an infection risk. That was in 2012.

A friend gave me some irises from her garden and I planted them where the coop had been. I also planted some against the house and near where one of the dead ash trees had been.

Each year we went to garden centers and bought perennials for Emily’s hillside and annuals for the tiny garden that I called my own, the one by the driveway. I wasn’t as adept at gardening as Emily. The small annual garden was manageable to me. The first year, I planted bright pink pansies and they took over the space

There was much more to do in our nearly half acre yard, but Emily got her first gardening job three years ago and that consumed her energy. That year, she instructed me to water her perennials. She helped me plant my annual garden. She began learning new techniques. She also discovered that she was shockingly allergic to poison ivy.

As Emily learned more about caring for growing things, our yard gradually morphed from a chaotic jungle to a messy (but well-loved) haven.

Gardening is hard work, especially when you do it for a living. At the start of this season, Emily’s third as a gardener, she came perilously close to quitting. She’d spent the winter indoors without work, and she wasn’t physically conditioned for the hard work of early spring gardening.

It took her a good two months to find her groove again. I encouraged her by funding more plants and listening to everything she said. She expanded my tiny garden and took over. She showed me the proper way to weed a bed. She coached me on watering techniques and deadheading as we added more flowers to our ever-expanding collection.

She ripped out the irises I planted four years ago. They’d taken over the area and were tricky to weed. I gave a bunch to a friend and she tossed the rest, though some remain growing against the house. She turned the spot into a lovely new bed with fresh plants (basil and something that’s purple). She has big plans to add more things there next year.

I love Emily’s vision. I’m happy to relinquish control of the yard to her as she develops and expands her skills.

My not-so-tiny garden is visible from my office window. That spot gets a mixed amount of shade and light.

“Watch the light and tell me how much sun it gets so I can plan what to plant,” she told me. My mission this year is to study the light. I’ve been staring out my window, assessing how much sun that spot gets.

“The light is hard to pinpoint,” I told Emily yesterday. “It hits different parts of the garden at different times. It depends on the clouds. It depends on the wind. I think some of it gets full sun from about 11 am to 4 pm. I’ll keep watching.”

Watching the way light falls in one part of my yard is a new experience. It changes so much. It’s incredibly complex. It’s always kind of shocking how oblivious I can be to what’s going on around me. Like the year I “discovered” the birds, I am reminded of how little I know.

That there is so much complexity in the light that reaches my yard shouldn’t take me by surprise, but it does. Just like the complexity of birds and grief and parenting, I am humbled by how much there is left for me to learn.

When my daughter Ana was diagnosed with cancer in 2012, I was working as a self-employed search marketer. I had clients, a fixed daily routine, and a very bright future. My girls were eight and eleven. They were the center of everything. Life was good until our luck ran out.

Ana’s diagnosis was a whirlwind cinematic moment of terror — a bad stomach ache, a trip to our local hospital, a white-faced physician explaining the horrific results of her CT scan, an endless ambulance ride to a children’s hospital, and our first midnight meet and greet with a pediatric oncologist.

The hospital stay would be indefinite, so I emailed my clients to let them know I’d be MIA for a while. I apologized. I said I’d try to work at her bedside. I delegated the most important work to my subcontractors.

One of my clients (Dr. N), a spine surgeon, immediately responded. He told me not to worry about work. It was more important for me to be present for my daughter, be her advocate, and get at least 6 hours of sleep a night.

He said he had seen parents completely fall apart in hospital scenarios like the one I was about to face, mainly due to lack of sleep. Over the next few weeks, he provided additional guidance about how to navigate the complex hellscape we’d found ourselves in.

He was an expert in the world of hospitals. I was merely a visitor — confused, exhausted, perpetually filled with dread. In the fog of those earliest days of Ana’s diagnosis, Dr. N helped me understand how important it was to be her advocate. He also gave me hope.

Medicine is a waiting game. Dr. N explained that when something rare and terrible occurs, something with no clear path to treatment, the key is keeping the patient alive as long as possible.

“We need to buy time,” he’d said, “because there’s always another drug or treatment in the pipeline. Get her to the people who are experts in her specific type of cancer. That’s the best way to make sure she survives long enough for a miracle.”

I don’t think these were his exact words. It’s what I remember fourteen years after Ana’s diagnosis and nine years after her death.

I didn’t think Ana was going to die. But just weeks after my indoctrination into Cancerland, I was already starting to understand the limits of modern medicine. There was exactly one treatment for Ana’s rare tumor — surgical removal. Since her tumor was the size of a grapefruit and it engulfed her liver, she needed a liver transplant.

It was supposed to be the cure. Her oncologist was very reassuring about this. Remove the tumor and the liver along with it, and she would recover. It was a terrifying surgery for an 11-year-old to face, we had no choice, no other options. Six months after that frantic ambulance ride to the children’s hospital, Ana got her liver transplant. Six months after the transplant, her cancer returned.

Cancer recurrence is an outcome we dreaded — going back into the hospital, facing constant scans, putting Ana through the torment of brutal treatment right when she was starting 7th grade. It felt impossible. But I recalled my client’s words and was still quite hopeful. We just needed to keep Ana alive long enough for someone to produce a miracle.

And that’s exactly what we did. At least, for a while. When I say we, I mean her brilliant oncologist and the surgeons who kept removing tumors as they popped up throughout the course of Ana’s illness.

Ana had inflammatory myofibroblastic tumor (IMT), a rare presentation of a rare cancer. This is exactly the kind of cancer that compels doctors and scientists to push the boundaries of medicine.

Ana’s doctor sent one of her tumors out for a complete genomic sequencing, a process that maps the DNA and RNA of a tumor to identify its specific genetic mutations. This is a relatively new technology. Widespread mapping of various cancers wasn’t initiated until late 2005 when the NIH launched the Human Cancer Genome Project (HCGP).

Among other things, genomic sequencing is used to help doctors identify targeted therapies based on gene mutations that the sequencing identifies. When we got the results of her sequencing back, they weren’t what any of the brilliant minds at Columbia Presbyterian expected.

Here’s how Ana’s doctor explained it (I kept the notes): “There’s a fusion of two genes that’s very novel — meaning, we’ve never seen it before. This fusion involves a receptor called IL23 which activates certain pathways involved with inflammation that cause the gene to be continually on. There may be a drug that targets IL23.”

Incredible news. The drug he identified was called ruxolitinib — brand name, Jakafi. It was approved on November 16, 2011. That meant it had only been available for about three years at the time Ana started taking it. The drug was approved for something entirely different than Ana’s cancer. It had only been used in adults.

By the time we got the call about her specific novel cancer mutation, testing with Jakafi had begun on children. Data on the results of the test had been published in an oncology journal just a couple of weeks before Ana’s results came back. Ana’s doctor reached out to the author of that study to get contacts for the company that made the drug. And, miraculously, he was able to get it for her. It was even covered by insurance which was a good thing because Jakafi cost about $8,000 for a 30 day supply.

We’d done it. We’d kept Ana alive long enough to find the miracle treatment that could potentially save her.

And it was a real miracle that the novel mutation was discovered and that Ana’s brilliant oncologist was able to identify a drug to treat her cancer. Jakafi worked, for a while, but cancer is sneaky. It often mutates and becomes resistant to treatment.

Ana was on several different targeted drugs at the end of her life. These medications kind of worked, but they never completely stopped the growth or spread of her cancer. I got Google alerts for IMT, and when a new drug was mentioned, I forwarded the study to her doctor. That’s how we lived for the last few years of her illness, trying to outrun Ana’s cancer with every treatment available to her at the time.

And then time ran out. The drugs stopped working, the cancer kept spreading, and Ana’s story ended.

I’ve been thinking about this experience a lot lately, given the conversations around AI and its role in medicine. Getting targeted drugs to the patients who need them isn’t easy. The drug discovery process is long, though new technologies like Google DeepMind’s AlphaFold, are using AI to speed up the process.

AlphaFold predicts a protein’s complex 3D shape directly from its genetic sequence. It can map these structures in minutes, a process that once took years. This helps scientists design targeted drugs much faster.

Demis Hassabis and Dr. John Jumper at Google DeepMind won the 2024 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for the work they did on AlphaFold. Now Hassabis also heads up Isomorphic Labs, an Alphabet sister company focused on drug discovery. This marries the two halves of what’s needed to “solve all disease” as Hassabis has said — identifying proteins and matching them to the drugs that will treat them.

And this is also one of the key rationales that the biggest players in AI use to justify the relentless push towards AI everywhere, all the time, all at once. AI will cure cancer. AI will solve hunger. AI will make everything better. In every interview I’ve watched with Hassabis, and every article I’ve read about the topic of AI and cancer, it seems he is sincere in achieving this goal. But even if the technology suddenly produces miracle drugs for all the things, will it be accessible to patients? Will it be worth the collateral damage it creates?

I feel bitter. I recognize that we need noble pursuits like curing cancer. We need research into rare diseases that don’t necessarily equal profitability for big pharma and biotech companies, but can save kids like my daughter.

But it seems to me that we may pay a huge price for this lofty goal, and that no one, at least in the short term, is going to be saved by allowing AI to push forward with no reins or guardrails or real plan. And while all this money is being thrown at AI, the U.S. has cut funding for all kinds of science research, freezing or terminating nearly 8000 research grants since January 2024. They’ve also cut 25,000 scientists and personnel from the agencies that oversee this research. The largest grants cut? Those funding clinical trials needed for drug approval.

AI can help us get the drugs faster, but the drugs don’t reach the patients unless we have clinical trials. There could be a drug out there that can save you or your child, but so what? It may as well not exist if it can’t get approval, isn’t covered insurance, or isn’t tested on, and ultimately approved, for children.

I wonder who is doing the good work here. Is it Hassabis and his ilk, pouring billions into AI with the feverish conviction that it will one day solve all of humanity’s problems? Or is it the overworked pediatric oncologist and scientists who figured out how to get the right drug to the right patient at the right time? Are these people even talking to each other?

Medicine is about buying time, but it’s also about connecting the dots. The massive amount of money being fed into AI systems will ultimately be money wasted if there’s no investment in the other side of the medical coin — the human side. It won’t matter if AlphaFold identifies the perfect drug without a way to get that drug to patients. We need these miracles, but I keep wondering if guys like Hassabis really understand what’s at stake. Is he using “solving cancer” as an excuse to tap into Google’s bottomless resources and realize his own AI dreams?

You’ll have to forgive me for being a bit cynical for wondering if the goal isn’t to save children like my daughter, but to win this guy another Peace Prize and to enrich companies that are already incredibly wealthy. I had a glimpse of what a real miracle really looks like, after all. I know that “curing cancer” sounds great in theory, but the reality for many families like mine is that there just wasn’t enough time for a true miracle to save our kids.

Nearly every evening at about 7:30 or 8:00 pm, I lay out my watercolor supplies on the dining room table (paint, paper, brushes, three jars of clean water, five ceramic dishes for mixing colors, and paper towels for blotting.) I select a reference photo on my phone — usually a tree or bird that I’ve snapped on a walk — and spend 1–2 hours painting a picture that likely won’t ever see the light of day.

I started painting about a year and a half ago, without any loftier goal than trying to understand watercolor. It’s not an easy medium to work with. You need to learn how water and paper and brushes effect pigment. There’s not much wiggle room to make a mistake. But when you get it right, my god. It’s a buzz worth chasing.

I’d been using acrylic paint pens and ink to make art for a few years before the watercolor pivot. I was content with that until I found myself inexplicably drawn to some a paint set that was languishing, unused, in my art supply bin.

It was a child’s watercolor set of 8 or 10 paint cakes in a little plastic case. For a couple of months, I was content with using this. I mashed my crappy brush into my crappy paint and produced the world’s worst watercolor. Of course, it didn’t end there. I eventually moved on to buying tubes of paint, better brushes, higher quality paper. But for the first few months, I was 10-years-old again, having fun with $8 art supplies.

I paint because I like making art, even when it’s terrible. I paint because it’s a way to produce something tangible. I paint because it releases some dopamine in my brain, and I’ll take what I can get right now, all things considered. And, lately, I paint to stay connected to my own creativity — the slow, messy, process of manifesting art in my dining room at 9 pm. It’s work that can’t be analyzed by an algorithm. It doesn’t scale. It won’t be contributing to anyone’s bottom line anytime soon.

Behind a billion screens, the robots are writing prize-winning short stories. They’re filling expensive research reports and nonfiction books with lies. They’re writing novels (or, at least, contributing to the writing of novels). They’re helping us populate our social media feeds with AI-generated photos and video.

There are obvious issues with this much abundance. AI-generated garbage is built on the backs of human ingenuity and creativity. It’s ramping up energy consumption for literally no good reason. It’s fooling grandma on the regular and crowding out human voices.

The proliferation of robot-art is bad for artists in ways that aren’t always immediately apparent. It could very well be destroying our ability to recognize real art (and the work involved in creating it) completely.

When one user posted a real Monet painting to X, claiming it was generated by AI, the post went viral.

Some of the comments to this supposed AI-generated image are hilarious, or they would be hilarious if they weren’t so…concerning. People immediately began picking the painting apart, pointing out why it was “obviously” AI. Millions of people viewed the image and hundreds commented with very specific reasons about why this (real) painting was AI.

The response to this experiment raises some serious questions. For example, “What even is art?” and “Why make art at all when no one can tell if it’s real or fake?”

The answer to the overarching question here, e.g., “What is the point of art, anyway?” will vary depending on who you are. If you’re someone who runs a company, if you’re selling something, if you’ve always wanted to produce more content but haven’t had the means or the talent to do so, the answer is probably, “Oh goodie, we can sell more things without hiring more people to create the campaigns/channels/creative assets/infrastructure needed to sell these things.”

If, like me, you’re an artist or creative person, your answer will likely be, “Why are we even asking this question?”

I like to paint because it’s not connected to the grind. Creating art with no purpose at all feels like an act of protest. It’s my time and I’ll use (waste) it as I see fit.

I know it’s not going to change the world (or anyone’s mind), but it breaks me away from the algorithm for a while. It lets me succeed or fail in a way that’s not tied to anything.

It won’t land me my next gig. It won’t stop the rising tide of AI-generated content that’s washing away all the creative jobs. It won’t make the cost of groceries go down or universal healthcare magically appear. But it keeps my creative muscle sharp. Use it or lose it, I always say.

And we are losing it, it being our ability to make independent decisions free from AI’s influence. It turns out that outsourcing the hard part of creating art to AI, a process known as “cognitive offloading” is quite possibly making us dumber.

I’m not talking about creating the art itself, but the part that happens before you dip your brush into the paint and drag it across your cold-pressed 100% cotton watercolor paper. Staring at the blank page, coming up with a subject to paint or write, summarizing a complex idea into something intelligible, creating a to-do-list and on and on — these are the things that we need to do to lubricate the old gray matter.

This is an alarming problem that’s going to hit young people hardest, with preliminary research showing that bots like Claude and ChatGPT require much less brain activity than thinking for yourself (duh) or using a search engine with the AI shut off. Use it or lose it…

When I paint, I don’t eschew technology entirely. I stream an algorithmically-generated playlist from YouTube and I use my phone to display a reference photo. Everything else is old school — pencils, paper, paint, brushes, the agony of the blank page and the misery of failure.

I like to think that creating art, even when it’s terrible, is valuable because it keeps my brain fired up and working hard. Should I paint a tree? A bird? The Enterprise hovering in a clear blue sky?

These decisions are entirely my own: what to paint, what to do or not to do with my art, what medium to use, paper size, composition, color scheme. Ping. ping. ping. That’s the sound of my brain grinding into gear. Of course, none of this pays the bills, at least not immediately. And yet…

Creatives often land in marketing roles. We write the copy, compose the music, shape and render the images, the video, the UI. We like to say we love the work, but (at least in my case) the truth is a bit more complicated. I love that the work allows me to support myself. I love that I can do it remotely. I love producing something tangible (even if it’s just pixels and data).

I was a freelance content writer from 2018 until this year. I loved getting paid to write content. It let me draw on the craft I’d been honing my entire adult life. But it’s a stretch to say it was ever truly creative work, even before AI gobbled up all the writing jobs.

What has been infinitely more lucrative than my ability to form a decent sentence is adaptability. I’m comfortable learning about and using new technology. I’m good at writing about this technology in a way that non-technical executives can understand. Great. But AI is much better at this than me. So my latest pivot is to take the 2.5 decades of marketing, agency, writing, and tech experience I have and make it useful for a company that creates events focused on marketing and sales transformation.

It’s a job that requires me to use AI all day, every day. After three solid months of this, I feel a bit dumber than I used to be. I’ve been outsourcing the stuff that previously made my brain fire up with activity — writing an email or reading an industry article, for example. Is my brain atrophying? Maybe. I feel it the most when I sit down to write something without using AI. I feel it when I sit down to paint and it takes me an impossibly long time to know where to start. Not great.

“Shut it down,” as Liz Lemon would say.

There is no point to my watercolor paintings. The pointlessness is the point. At least, that’s what I used to think. But after three months of letting ChatGPT and Claude do so much of the work I once did myself, I’m beginning to think that creating art has a very important purpose, even the art that nobody but me will ever see.

The disconnect from technology, the act of choosing my brush, my paint colors, my composition, my subject and the dopamine that floods my neural pathways — this is the medicine that keeps me sharp. I do this nearly every day. I viewed it as a ritual, a daily practice, a way to unwind. But it’s become more than a pointless hobby. It’s exercise. My brain craves it to the extent that sometimes I don’t even recall making a conscious decision to sit down and paint. I find myself at the table, setting up my workstation and queuing up the music before I realize I’m even doing it.

But why stop there? I’ve begun writing most of my emails myself again, even though it’s much faster to have Claude draft them. I’m reading articles and blog posts slowly and methodically, jotting down quotes in notepad, creating lists of interesting people in a spreadsheet (HubSpot be damned) so I can reach out to them about speaking opportunities for my company’s next event (spoiler: it’s an AI in marketing summit).

I’m old, likely unemployable in the traditional sense, but my brain still works, so I’m still going to use it.

Tech companies, traditionally my bread and butter, are laying people off by the tens of thousands. They’re replacing our jobs with AI. But they’re also freeing up budget to pay for AI infrastructure.

The best thing I can do right now is to keep using my brain. Critical thinking will soon become a key differentiator to finding work that AI can’t do without human oversight. Mark my words! We all need to think twice before we let Claude write our next email. Use it or lose it, I always say…

Today is my daughter Ana’s 25th birthday, but she’s not here to celebrate. Ana died in 2017, when she was 15. There is no urgency today, no presents to wrap, no cake to bake. Ana won’t be stopping by for birthday dinner. She’s not here to tell me about her life, her dreams, or her next adventure.

This is the 10th birthday without a cake for Ana. There’s nothing new about this loss. It’s incredibly lonely, after all these years. I used to blog about Ana when she was sick. I updated my family and extended circle of friends and acquaintances about Ana’s health, the latest news, the setbacks and scans (bad or good), and our unending hope that Ana would “beat cancer.” It was a warm place to land, that blog. It reminded me that people were with us and that they loved Ana too. This love, it carried me.

But after Ana died, it didn’t make sense to keep updating the blog. What was there to update except the current flavor of my despair? That’s why I started publishing essays. The blog had done its job. It had brought people together and helped us create a web of support. Then Ana died and I couldn’t keep subjecting people to the unhappy ending of her story.

I was bitter. I felt like I failed. I needed to nurse my wounds away from that warm place of support. From this bleak headspace, I curled up inside the dark anonymity of the internet and wrote about my pain to readers who didn’t know anything about Ana. It was (and is) surprisingly comforting.

The truth of parental grief is hard to admit. Forever is a long fucking time. For most of the many years I must exist on this rock without Ana, I will need to bear my sadness alone.

Am I okay? Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m okay until May 16th when I wake up to a quiet house and move through my morning chores as if it’s just another day. I’m okay until I stop short beside the doorway to Ana’s old bedroom and recall that 25 years ago, I met my baby for the very first time and felt the universe shift.

May 16th will never be a normal day for me.

Waking up on your dead child’s birthday year after year is a parenting experience that’s impossible to explain. It’s a day filled with the most terrible kinds of birthday wishes.

I wish Ana were here. I wish she never got cancer. I wish grief no longer had the power to completely derail me. Yet, here I am again, in this barren wonderland, so familiar now. It’s almost as comforting as that old blog.

The landscape of grief is filled with art and blackbirds and half-weeded gardens. Today it’s decorated with ribbons of purple and grey. They run through this place like a bruise, visible ornaments of despair. Happy Birthday to Ana. Happy birth-day to me. I wish that I could tell you that the wishing has stopped because, come on. It’s been a decade. Who has time for my grief anymore? Who has time to remember Ana?

I wish, I wish, I wish…

Ana deserved another 80 birthdays. She had so few. I wish I could’ve given her some of mine. Instead, I’ll give you a poem I wrote about her when she was 2, and I was absolutely enchanted with how my tiny baby was emerging as a fully clarified little human.

All that is Ana

Where is my forever baby?
Your round cheeks are not as round
Your toothless smile
Has become a gap-toothed grin.
there are no more bottles,
no more training shoes
or stacking rings.

Now you fly on steady legs
in these butterfly days
of transformation.

You can reach the high places
climbing the chairs
of your world
to those points of mystery
no longer beyond your reach.

My little volcano,
bubbling over with desire
to do, to go, to get;
with each new day, erupting
into yourself becoming
all that is Ana.

You love to say hello to the rain,
and eat strawberries.
you are Ana who sings
on her blue swing.

The other day, my husband and I took our two small dogs for a walk at a nature preserve that’s a few miles from our house. We’ve gotten into the habit of taking this walk most evenings at around 5 or 6 pm. It’s a lovely quiet trail that’s often empty around dinnertime.

Clementine, our 1-year-old puppy, is reactive. She barks loudly and enthusiastically at dogs and people. She’s very sweet and just wants to say hello, but it’s disruptive and a little embarrassing because she can be loud. The trail is perfect for her since it allows us to gently correct the reactivity without too much overstimulation.

We’ve also discovered that Clementine uses her bad leg on this trail. When she was around three or four months old, she was diagnosed with a catastrophic hip issue called Legg-Calvé-Perthes disease that caused the head of her femur (the “ball” part of her hip) to die due to lack of blood supply. She had a procedure in March called a femoral head ostectomy (FHO) to correct the issue. It has a great prognosis.

She’s healed beautifully and no longer seems to be in pain. But since she never learned to walk normally, her muscle atrophied. She holds her leg up or hops like a bunny. On this trail, we notice she (sometimes) uses her bad leg, walking normally on the uneven surface and some of the little wooden bridges sprinkled throughout the trail.

We’ve been going there a lot lately, as part of Clementine’s therapy. This is how we happened to meet Kathy, an elderly woman with kind eyes. She approached us as we were corralling the dogs out of the car and onto the trail, trying to get Clementine to stop barking. I let Clementine say hello as Kathy came closer. She smiled at the dogs, then turned to me and said, “Can I walk with you?”

Kathy explained that she doesn’t like to walk alone. She mentioned her husband and that he wasn’t able to join her, but also that he worried about her when she went for her walks.

I guess my husband and I don’t look too threatening. We’re in our 50s, with two dogs that look like stuffed animals. We were walking at a snail’s pace when Kathy approached us. I explained the issue with Clementine’s hip, hoping to dissuade her from tagging along. “I’m afraid we’re not going to move very fast,” I said.

Kathy assured me that she was happy to go at whatever pace we wanted and so we started down the trail, the five of us, and I swallowed my impatience. I’d been looking forward to the solitude of the trail at this hour and to some time with my husband outside of the house. We both work from home and tend to get stuck in our respective routines.

It soon became clear that Kathy needed more than the safety of the group. She needed companionship. As we settled into our walk, I got to know her a bit.

She lived on the steep road where the trailhead was. It had taken her and her husband a while to find the perfect house. She was a public school art teacher for more than 30 years. I told her I was learning to paint with watercolor and her face lit up. “I used to teach watercolor,” she said. “Remember, you have to start with a wash.” This was such an ambiguously random bit of guidance that I had to suppress a grin.

“Yes, I do that,” I said.

My husband and I spent about 45 minutes with Kathy. Clementine’s leg can get a bit shaky if she pushes too hard, so we try to keep it short. As we approached the trailhead, we talked about our kids. I learned that Kathy has a daughter and granddaughter, and that her granddaughter is about to get married.

“Congratulations,” I said.

We also discovered that Kathy’s granddaughter and my daughters had attended the same local private school. It’s a tiny progressive school that spans pre-k through 8th grade. “I think my younger daughter graduated around 2016,” I said, surprised at how hard it was to remember the date. Emily actually graduated from that school in 2018, a year after losing her sister.

“How old are your kids now?” Kathy asked. “How many kids do you have?”

I paused. I took a deep breath. I avoided looking at my husband.

“I have two daughters,” I said. “My daughter Emily just turned 22. Ana would’ve turned 25 this month, but she died from cancer when she was 15.”

I waited a beat as my words sank in. I watched Kathy’s face run through what’s become a familiar litany of emotions — shock, horror, pity, and something like discomfort. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay. She died nine years ago.” But, of course, it’s not okay.

I don’t get to tell strangers about Ana much anymore. I used to tell everyone that she died. Now, I hold the information close except in the essays I write. It was an unexpected surprise to meet someone new and to walk with them. I hope to do more of that.

Kathy is around the same age as my mother, perhaps a few years older. I hope that if my mother ever finds herself alone on a trail and asks to tag along on someone’s walk, that she isn’t turned away.

We are all someone’s daughter. And, if we’re lucky, we’re also someone’s mother. Sharing the walk with Kathy was a powerful reminder that there’s real solace in human connection.

This is especially true if you’ve lost a child. I struggle with holidays, birthdays, and other named days — events that were once all about my kids. Mother’s Day, in particular, is hard for me. I send my mother flowers, but prefer to spend the day at home, planting marigolds in my garden, and taking a long walk on a favorite trail.

This year, I might take the dogs and my husband to walk on Clementine’s healing trail again. If Kathy happens to be there, all the better. She’s more than welcome to join us on our walk. Maybe Mother’s Day is hard for her too.

The summer after my daughter died, I was fixated on seeing rainbows. Every time we had an early evening storm, I’d grab my camera and rush my husband out the door to chase the darkest, thickest clouds. He drove while I stared at the sky and told him where to turn and slow down.

It had to be timed exactly right. You can’t see a rainbow in the middle of the storm. You have to wait until just after the rain stops and the clouds begin to part. When the sun is coming out again, breaking through the dissipating moisture, angling in from the east, that’s when you might see it — the gleaming spectrum of color. Mostly, I was unsuccessful. I witnessed glorious displays of lightning and wind, but saw almost no rainbows.

To this day, driving towards a dark, stormy horizon at dusk conjures up some of the heavy, desperate confusion I felt right after Ana died. Where was she? How could she be gone? Why was I still alive when my child no longer existed? That’s also when I started to imagine what the afterlife might look like. I chased rainbows because I became convinced that they were proof of Ana’s existence.

I wanted answers from the rainbows that I knew I wasn’t going to get. I wasn’t about to get them from Ana either.

Did I think that she was somewhere behind the storm clouds in a place far above the earth, looking down at us like the girl from The Lovely Bones? Maybe.

In the first year or two after she died, I imagined that Ana was learning the ropes, getting good at making rainbows, figuring out how to assign hummingbirds to my yard, and occasionally dropping coins and feathers in my path. Maybe she was learning how to hear me. Maybe she was learning how to show me she was still here.

As a non-religious and not particularly scientific person, it’s been difficult for me to imagine what an afterlife might look like. All I have is my vivid imagination. I picture a place. There’s solid ground beneath Ana’s feet and an indigo sky above her head. I imagine that she has a body there, but only when she wants one.

It’s Ana’s place, as real to her as my yard is to me. And it looks like all the places that Ana always loved — the beach, the river, the wooded trails behind her school, her bedroom decked out with fairy lights and scented candles. It is a place of warmth and color.

Ana loved the beach. We live three hours away from the ocean, so she’d only been to a real white-sand, shell-strewn beach a few times in her life.

She painted a beach scene in her final year, using pearly iridescent acrylics to represent a luminous sky and pink sand. There was a girl in that painting, small and delicate, standing with her back to the world, staring at the ocean. I often think of this as Ana’s entry point into eternity, the place where she woke up. It was from that beach, the sand warm but not too hot for her bare feet, that Ana discovered she was the one who’d moved onto something wonderful. It’s the rest of us that got left behind.

Ana’s birthday falls on May 16th. The birds are nesting in earnest by then, the trees and flowers are blooming, the lawn is impossibly green. This is also what I imagine it must be like in the place where Ana’s soul exists.

Ana’s world is not just pink sandy beaches and miles of serene ocean. It’s also the deep green of early spring. It’s an old-growth forest filled with salamanders and tulip trees. It’s a purposeful place where she’s learning things that my living mind can’t grasp.

She’s been there long enough that she can send me signs at will. She’s greeting the souls of dead children and exploring the limitless expanse of the cosmos without the constraints of a body or time. Sometimes she’s watching those of us that got left behind and dropping a hint or two that she’s still here, that she’s ok.

I like to imagine that my love still reaches her there. I think it does. Signs of Ana show up when I feel lost or when I’m content or for no reason at all. I almost never dream about her anymore, though. That’s yet another loss.

My birthday is in May too. I’ll be 55 at the end of the same month that Ana would’ve been 25. We would’ve celebrated together by planting flowers, taking a walk by the Hudson River, eating cheesecake, and exchanging gifts. I would’ve given her a necklace, I think. Maybe we would’ve taken a weekend trip to some place with a lovely sandy beach.

Maybe we would’ve taken a walk on my favorite trail and looked for frogs and mushrooms together. Maybe we would’ve gotten caught in a storm and run through the trees towards the trailhead, laughing, just in time to see a rainbow arc out over the Hudson.

I’m still a little obsessed with seeing rainbows. I don’t chase storms anymore, but I do go outside after an early evening rain and stare at the eastern sky, looking for those familiar bright colors. Like the full moon, hummingbirds, and the brief few weeks that my magnolia tree blooms, rainbows feel like a miracle.

By now, I’m sure that Ana has mastered whatever magic is needed to produce such a monumental sign. It’s been nearly a decade, after all. She is on her beach, with four cats beside her: Kasha, Echo, Basil, and Luna. She was never alone in eternity, but now she has a real tribe. She is patient, because she’s not constrained by time the way I am.

She doesn’t feel it at all. At least, that’s what I like to believe. Because if time exists where Ana is, then it’s possible she’ll get impatient. She might not wait for me.

I like to imagine that when I die, I’ll wake up on the shores of Ana’s beach right after a storm. The sun will be setting and a rainbow will be stretched across the ocean, a bright ribbon of color sparkling like a dream. But it won’t be the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. No, that will be Ana, waiting with a smile on her face, eager to tell me everything she’s learned. And beside her, the cats, completely unfazed by my sudden appearance.

This doesn’t feel like wishful thinking. It feels like a prophecy.

A few years ago, my husband and I planted an apple tree. It was just a slender sapling, barely more than a twig. Our aim was to eventually replace the dwarf nectarine tree we’d planted 15 or 16 years ago. I love that nectarine tree even though it’s never once produced a single viable piece of fruit. It’s the perfect Y-shaped tree, with lovely arched branches that serve as perches for birds, squirrels, and the occasional neighborhood cat.

Dwarf nectarine trees only live about 15–20 years. I looked this up the year we got the apple sapling, when I noticed that some of the nectarine tree’s branches didn’t look so good. That same year, a huge branch had snapped off from heavy snow. It was practically half the tree.

So we planted the apple tree the following spring. We almost lost it that first year because we didn’t water it enough. Last year we almost lost it again because it was infested with something that ate all its leaves.

But this morning, as the sun was rising and my dogs were doing their business in the yard, I noticed the apple tree was covered in pale pink flowers. It’s a bit bigger too, with more branches. It’s still not much more than a fragile sapling, but it might just live to replace the nectarine tree after all. That old tree, to its credit, bloomed again this year and is now covered with bright green buds.

This delicate dance of life and death, played out by the trees in my yard, is completely removed from the work I do each day. That work involves wrestling with AI and spreadsheets and platforms connected by code I can’t see.

What I can see is a world of green outside because my desk is surrounded by windows. The nectarine tree, the apple tree, the birds at my feeders, and all the pulsing, buzzing, and perpetually growing life that comprises my yard exist in a completely different dimension than my day-to-day machine-driven work.

I love to paint and draw trees. It’s become my latest obsession. I take endless photos of them. I sit down to paint a tree almost every single night.

I’ve lived surrounded by trees all my life. They are abundant and ubiquitous in most regions of New York. There was a Dogwood tree I loved on the front lawn of my childhood home on Long Island. There were two Mountain Laurel bushes on the rental property in the tiny town where I lived when I first moved away from Long Island.

And there are my nectarine tree, my catalpa tree, the ever-expanding dogwood tree we planted ten years ago, and the riot of trees on the small hill across from my office. I love them all.

It’s easy to take trees for granted when they’ve always been present in the scenery of my life. But I still need to use reference photos when I paint them. I still stare at trees in wonder, admiring how the configuration of branches, like snowflakes, are unique to every tree. I often think about what I’m missing when I stare at my screen all day long.

As I type commands into Claude or ChatGPT, I wonder how generative AI perceives trees. How can applications like Google’s Nano Banana, an image generation tool released in August 2025, create a tree from thin air and pixels? Tell it to make a tree and the tree manifests in seconds. It’s taken me a lifetime of looking at trees to create passably good drawings of them, but this invisible technology can conjure any tree you desire in an instant.

What a bummer.

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Tell Nano Banana to make you something and it will cheerfully comply. Prompting it with plain language is its superpower. Or, put more technically by author Ellen Glover on Built In, “The company is positioning the tool as both a generator and editor, combining these capabilities in a single interface designed for iterative, chat-based interactions.” In people-speak, that means you can refine your AI rendering with plain english commands.

For example, type “make me a dwarf nectarine tree in the style of a watercolor painting,” and Nano Banana will produce something like this:

You can then say, “This looks like a tree full of asses,” and it will revise the drawing so that the nectarines look even more like asses, just a bit darker and more abundant. You can then reply, “Jesus, no. Do one with blossoms instead.” And the chatbot/image generator might give you this:

That last image is fine. It’s more a branch than a tree, but so what? It took no graphic design training or artistic talent whatsoever to create. The first image looks like a tree full of asses, which is fitting I suppose. But this last image, though soulless and devoid of artistic flair, is kind of pretty. So why do I hate it so much?

Generative AI creates images and other content based on what it’s learned from its training data. When you give it a prompt, it tries to predict the most logical iteration of a response. This involves patterns and algorithms and numbers and a dash of futuristic alchemy (one imagines).

The net result is an internet full of abundant and mediocre computer-generated horseshit. When I fire up my chatbot of choice and ask it to create a nectarine tree, it does a decent job producing that tree because it’s drawing from an enormous virtual scrapbook of nectarine trees. I’m not a technical person. This is my rough understanding of how this all works behind the scenes.

The tree Nano Banana made is completely original, except not really. It’s a unique image that was made possible by identifying patterns (in this case, of nectarine trees) based on the artwork and photography of real people. The exact source of this artwork is Google’s highly coveted secret. They’ve stated only that they used “licensed and public domain” datasets to train their Nano B. model.

The model uses what it already knows from its training data to produce an image that makes sense to humans (the nectarines aren’t growing from the trunk, for example). But it also gets stuff wrong. The fruit is too large and looks a lot like a human butt. This makes sense. Nectarines are shaped like my ass and yours. Nano B. has never seen a tree or a human butt. Its brain lives in one of the data centers that are indiscriminately consuming water and electricity in a town near you.

That ass tree is just an expensive facsimile of a real nectarine tree. Use it in your slides or on your website, perhaps with some tweaking. The image does the job without spark, emotion, or interest. Use it, but know that it’s a flat dead thing that will never look like my friend Christopher Robin’s gorgeous and moody trees.

Staring at screens instead of trees makes me feel completely disconnected from life. Especially now, when so much of the content on my screen is being created by computers vs. humans. The disassociation from nature is painfully stark.

What does AI give us, really? Not books, but the echo of what books once were. Not plays or movies or stories crafted from human experience, but the facsimile of these things watered down into homogeneous summaries and shallow reflections. Not gorgeous and unique paintings of trees, but emotionless “illustrations” that fail to capture the chaotic beauty of the dying nectarine tree or the vibrant young apple tree in my yard.

I mean, of course I’ve become obsessed with trees, with staring at them, photographing them, and featuring them in my artwork. I’m desperately trying to hold onto the essence of something organic and visceral. Life and trees. Trees and life. It feels like we’re losing so much.

There’s a new social media trend where people post a version of the caption, “Me, after getting left behind by AI” along with a photo, piece of artwork, video, or meme of someone blissfully enjoying something that’s clearly not AI, usually something in nature. I like this trend. It speaks to my own yearning to break away from the constant deluge of technology and AI.

It’s been an absolute firehose of change over the past few years. For me, personally, it has meant completely reinventing my day-to-day way of working. I’m no longer a content writer, a job I enjoyed for nearly a decade.

I now work with an online learning company helping to plan in-person events, develop their editorial agenda, and refine reports (with the generous use of AI). I’m grateful for this work, particularly the part where I get to speak with real people about their jobs. Talking to other humans helps remind me of my own humanity.

The mantra in professional circles has always been adapt or die. And for the past four decades I’ve done this. I learned how to use a computer at the age of 10, when we were still booting shit up with tape drives. I learned how to use MS Dos, then Windows, then apps on my phone, then THE CLOUD. And now we have AI, pulling me even further into the machine.

I’m tired of adapting. I want to sit outside, memorize the trees in my yard, and learn to paint. Put me out to pasture. I have much more in common with my old nectarine tree than I do with the young sapling growing beside it. Me getting left behind by AI? I’m fine with that.

Thank you for being here. While everything I write on Substack will always be free, paid subscriptions help support me as an independent writer (and freelancer). Did you know that I’m also an artist? I’m giving away an original piece of artwork to all paid subscribers and sweetening the deal with 30% off a paid subscription from now until I feel like it (so probably forever).

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Yesterday something great happened. I won Story Slam at Woodstock Bookfest. Story Slam is a reading event where up to twenty writers read 4-minute stories based on a prompt provided by Martha Frankel, an author, journalist, and force of nature here in the Hudson Valley.

Martha co-founded Woodstock Bookfest, an annual literary festival, in 2010. She produces and hosts Story Slam, which typically kicks off the Woodstock Bookfest in spring. There are also several standalone slams throughout the year. All of them help elevate writers, bring a community of supportive readers and writers together, and act as fundraisers for Bookfest.

Each slam has a theme which the storytellers need to incorporate into their pieces. Yesterday’s theme was “I Should’ve Said.”

I love writing to prompts. They’re a great way to inspire new ideas and get me out of a writing funk. This particular theme is just my kind of melancholy, so while it didn’t quite get me out of my chosen writing lane (grief), it helped me get unstuck. I’d been wanting to write an update to my daughter on the 9th anniversary of her death, but wasn’t sure how to go about it.

I wrote a version of that piece and posted it on Substack a couple of weeks ago, then adapted it for Story Slam, which meant cutting a 1000 word piece down to around 630 words.

I agonized about reading this piece, worried it was more of the same - yet another piece about grief, about losing a child, about the forever sadness I grapple with. I wrote two other pieces about topics unrelated to Ana. But I wanted to read my update to her. It’s the piece that I felt closest to, so I went with my gut.

What can I say? Sadness is my niche. I wish it were different. I’m always navigating grief, always thinking about Ana, always longing to talk about her. This is how I manage the terrible reality of losing a child. It’s how I make sense out of what still feels completely senseless.

Every story told last night was wonderful. Many of the writers are luminous performers - charismatic, confident, and wildly funny (all things I am not).

It was an honor to read with them, but I didn’t expect to win first place. I wanted to win though. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. There is a mewling needy part of my brain that craves the validation. Writing is lonely, even when you publish stuff on the internet. It’s hard to feel like a “real” writer without in-person human interaction. Reading with other writers, in front of an audience, and seeing them react in real time…man, that’s validating.

Story Slam gives me community. It’s the 5th one I’ve participated in and it always terrifies me. But I keep going to them because being there makes me feel so much less alone. People want to see the storytellers succeed - even the writers who we’re “competing” with.

It was a joy to participate and an absolute honor to win. Thank you, Martha, for making this event happen year after year.

You can watch videos from Story Slam on YouTube here (last night’s videos haven’t been added yet). If you’re local to Woodstock (or even if you aren’t) you can get updates about Bookfest and Story Slam by subscribing to their newsletter at the top of this page.

I’m a Gen X cautionary tale. Born in 1971, I grew up believing fairy tales about American greatness. They had a plan for us and I was dubiously on board with fulfilling it. I was cynical, but naively hopeful. I had dreams, but no real means to achieve them.

I took a wrong turn at every possible intersection of my life - dropped out of college, took on debt in my early 20s, failed to invest or save when I was young enough to build a real safety net.

I didn’t do most of the things they said I should do, but it’s not entirely my fault. I encountered all the obstacles unique to the last 50 or so years of American life - the things that have been steadily grinding away the possibility of a comfortable middle class existence. The migration of money from bottom to top, for example. The collapse of any reasonable healthcare system. Wage stagnation. The loss of job security and pensions, things that allowed people to plan for retirement.

I saw it happening early on when most of my father’s colleagues got laid off from Bell Labs, though he was lucky enough to be relocated out of state.

All that talk about being a team player and making the job my identity seemed empty. The whole American fever dream felt hollow and disingenuous.

I bought into it for a few short years when the Internet was new and exciting. I worked with other young people who shared my conviction that the Internet was going to change everything. I guess it did change everything, but not the way we thought it would.

It was supposed to democratize everything. It was supposed to fuel creativity and reinvent the rules of business. We had rollerblades in the office. We wore t-shirts and jeans instead of suits. We were going to change the world. But it quickly became clear that websites and internet startups were just another way to monetize the status quo.

I got laid off during the dot-com bust in 2002 and made this my escape from traditional corporate servitude forever. I became a freelancer. This protected me from unstable work, but it also meant my income fluctuated from month to month.

Freelancing won me more time with my first baby and then my second baby. It gave me autonomy from the 9-to-5 grind (for the first time in my adult life). It’s a good thing too, because the first baby didn’t live past childhood. All I had was 15 years with her.

They didn’t teach me about failure in Gen-X school - that sometimes you get laid off from the job that’s your identity and sometimes you get into so much debt by age 26 that you need to declare bankruptcy, that sometimes planes fly into buildings and you see people leap to their death on CNN. They didn’t tell me that sometimes kids don’t grow up.

Maybe all of the things we’ve been told are important are lies: the good job, the college degree, hard work, paying our taxes, feeding the economy one credit card purchase at a time, a low mortgage rate.

I guess that last one is kind of important.

Maybe I’m cynical, my worst enemy. Maybe I’m full of shit, but some things are true. Capitalism is a failed experiment. Technology doesn’t mean everyone has more time to pursue their passion. There’s no such thing as freedom without wealth, at least not in this country.

America is the bad guy. I think, maybe, we always were. My fellow cynical Gen Xers always knew this. And now it’s clear to everyone.

Freedom is a lie, because we killed a nurse and a poet who were protesting injustice. We blew up a school filled with children. We kidnapped innocent people and put them into concentration camps. We’re still doing this.

Fairness is a lie because we’re building a ballroom while people go hungry, houseless, and have no reliable healthcare.

Prosperity is a lie because Oracle and Microsoft and Amazon are cutting the white-collar jobs we went to school for (well, not me), and gas prices are rising while the earth boils over.

Every day I check my bank account to make sure there’s money in there. It’s a constant distraction, making sure everything is paid - month after month after month.

Every month I pay 80% of what I make to keep this rickety old roof over my head, heat the house, eat, drive, insure all the things, and fund the corrupt government. This is their American dream, not mine.

Maybe I should’ve said to that long-ago boss, “Yes, I’ll stay until eight. I’ll work the weekend. I’ll do what needs to be done even though I hate it.” But I wanted to be with the baby who wouldn’t live past 15, so I clocked out at 5:00, didn’t work weekends, and walked away from the corporate ladder.

I said, “Fuck the machine. I’ll work for myself.” And, god help me, I’d do it all over again even though I have almost nothing, not even that first baby.

But I still have the house, which I used to wipe out all my debt (not including my newly minted 30-year-mortgage). I have my garden and my home office where I make just enough money to keep things running (barely, and not well.) I have my marriage, my two tiny dogs, and I have the baby who lived, now 22. She has my whole heart, I love her so.

I was supposed to play by the rules and I tried, but I was never good at it because they never made sense to me. I’m still cynical, and more than a little bitter, but I’m also grateful. It’s true that I’m 54 with a 30-year mortgage, the smallest savings account in human history, and a complete inability to plan beyond next month’s needs. But I kept the thing they always wanted the most - my time. That has to count for something.

Let’s start with the birds. I was obsessed with seeing a hummingbird after you died, desperately hoping one would appear because I was sure it would be a sign from you. I didn’t think to attract them to the yard until a friend gave me a nectar feeder.

She dropped it off on the porch along with a can of store-bought red nectar. I set the feeder up in full view of my office window, but no hummingbirds appeared. I soon learned that the red nectar is bad for hummingbirds, so I dumped it and looked up a recipe online (four parts water, 1 part granulated sugar). I made my first batch of nectar that year and have been making it every year since.

That first terrible summer, three months after you died, I hung the gifted feeder on a shepherd’s crook pole and tied bright ribbons to tree branches around the yard. I didn’t have to wait long. The hummingbirds appeared in July, around the same time the hibiscus bloomed. They remained all summer, a family of four. I watched them for hours, enthralled. They were my only solace.

The seed feeders followed in September, after the hummingbirds left our yard for their long migration south. I’ve burned through over a dozen different types of feeders and feeder configurations since then. I landed on four feeders which hang from a stand that dad made me last year for Mother’s Day.

Each feeder contains a different type of seed so that I get a wide variety of birds in the yard: juncos, sparrows, woodpeckers, blackbirds, finches, jays, chickadees, and a few others that visit during spring and fall migration. Birds are always on my mind. I love them because they remind me of you, but also because they are proof that life keeps going, even when something terrible has happened.

Let me tell you about the garden. A few years ago, I started planting flowers against the house where all those bushes and weeds used to be. At first it was just a few annuals, mainly marigolds for your Day of the Dead altar.

There were always tulips and crocuses there, but I added more perennials including coneflower, blue salvia, many more tulips, lobelia, and something bright blue that Emily planted. I also planted a fat hydrangea bush that has only bloomed once, but what a year that was! The flowers were a rainbow of purples, blues, and pinks.

I add something new to my garden every year because it’s a gentle way to embrace change. Even so, I wish with an aching heart that you could see what plants and flowers I’ve chosen. It’s a ritual now, my imperfect garden. When I bring a new plant home, remove it from its pot, fan out the roots, and drop it into the fresh hole I’ve dug, I say, “You’re home now.” Then I pat the black soil around the fresh roots and look for earthworms and frogs. These creatures always make me think of you.

Luna died last summer, as I’m sure you know. It was sudden and heartbreaking for all of us. I like to imagine her appearing beside you in eternity, purring and content. If she’s with you, it means I’ll see her again when it’s my turn to go.

On the same day that Luna died, we got word from a shelter that we were approved to adopt a puppy. We were scared to get a pet so soon after losing Luna, but the timing was so perfect that we knew it had to be your doing. We adopted her in July and named her Clementine. She is an absolute love. She and Roo are best buddies, even though he wasn’t so sure about the whole puppy thing at first.

And speaking of Roo, he’s an old dog now. He has become my shadow, following me everywhere. He sleeps beside me at night and while I work and when I’m on the couch playing video games. He loves sleeping. His muzzle is white and he’s had two cancer scares. He’ll be 11 in November. Can you believe that? I love him with my whole heart. I remain convinced that when you asked for a puppy in your final year of life, you did it more for me than for you.

I don’t know if you can see all the changes we’ve made in the past nine years. I often wonder what you’d say about the flowers, the birds, and our updated kitchen which we never quite finished renovating. These things are tangible evidence that so much time has passed. There’s a lot that hasn’t changed too, and sometimes this makes me incredibly sad. It highlights your absence because we’re in the same house, the same town, and following the same routine, only without you here.

I still hate March. I hate how the first day of spring almost always arrives two days before the anniversary of your death. I hate that you never got to see the Magnolia tree bloom. It was still a young tree and its very first blossom appeared the week you died.

Now that tree is nearly fifteen feet tall and filled with purple blossoms in April. For so many years, I hated that tree for blooming without you. I hated spring for its warmth and its promise, and the explosion of life that occurred just weeks after you died. But I’ve grown to love it again.

That’s the biggest change, I think. Spring is my favorite time of year because the hummingbirds return and our lawn begins to green and the flowers I planted start to bloom. After all this time without you, I’ve learned the lesson of seasons. There’s no rushing them. They come and go as they please. Maybe I’ve become a more introspective person. Maybe you experience an ego death when you lose a child.

I’m going to be 55 this year. I’m slower, prone to distraction, heavier but somehow more fragile. I think you’d still recognize me, but you might gasp at the sight of how old I look. You might be mesmerized by the lines that have appeared on my face, the aging skin on my hands, the way my wardrobe has softened and stretched. You’d definitely notice that my hair’s gotten thinner and grayer. Everything about me has faded since you died.

Time has reshaped me and grief has worn me down, but now I’m someone who pays attention to trees and hummingbirds and the way the full moon glows orange on a crisp April evening.

I’m someone who plants flowers and knows the names of dozens of birds. I’m someone who believes that there is a place our souls go after we die and that you’re in that place, waiting patiently for me. Thank you for that, Ana. I love you and miss you, always.

Three summers ago, my lifelong best friend ghosted me. I’d been planning to visit her in Georgia, but I backed out of the trip, preferring to wait until the following spring. I’m a nervous traveler and it wasn’t the first time I’d dropped the ball on a planned visit.

Clara* was gracious. “Of course,” she said. She was warm and nonjudgmental about the delay. We hung up from what would be our final phone call and I felt cautiously optimistic. Clara hadn’t always been kind about my travel phobia. She was an avid traveler and had lived abroad. She didn’t understand why it was so hard for me.

“She was really good about it,” I told my husband. “She’s mellowed a lot.”

After the call, I texted Clara a few random things. That’s how we’d been staying in touch for most of the past decade. When she didn’t respond, I called her, but got her voicemail. Then she sent me the infamous “break-up” text.

She said she needed some space, that she was overwhelmed with life, and she’d reach out when she was ready. I knew it was a lie because Clara had always lied about hard things. She was likely upset that I’d put off visiting her again, which is entirely valid. I’ll never know for sure, though. I respected her request to leave her alone.

I unfriended Clara on Facebook and Instagram. I deleted her from my phone. I wept at the finality of this particular goodbye, but I also breathed a sigh of relief. I was done chasing a friendship that had become fractured and impossible to maintain.

If we’re lucky, we find a best friend at some point in life. If we’re really lucky, this person is someone who feels like family. That was definitely the case with Clara, who I loved like a sister for many years. We met in middle school and remained friends through high school and into our early twenties. I considered her my best friend, though I’m not sure she felt the same.

The friendship was always a bit imbalanced. Clara was the fun one, the smart one, the adventurous one. She was an extrovert and made friends easily. I was shy, self-conscious, and riddled with anxiety. There were some years when Clara was my only friend. She was my whole world back in high school.

Things got shakier between us when I met my husband in my mid-twenties. There was a four-year stretch when she didn’t talk to me at all. But she came back into my life after my daughter Ana was born, and we remained good (if not best) friends well into our thirties. Things grew shakier once we hit our forties.

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Sometimes ghosting is the easiest way to end a friendship that’s on its last gasp. When I backed out of the trip to visit Clara, I’d failed what had been my final test. She’d been living in Georgia for a few years by then, but I’d never mustered the courage to travel there.

She’d been the last one to make the effort to visit me — for my daughter Ana’s funeral. Ana was 15 when she died from cancer in March of 2017. We had a memorial service for her in May of that year, and that’s when Clara appeared at my doorstep. She cleaned my house. She painted my living room. She stayed for the service, and then she flew home.

Clara had always been braver than me in ways that come naturally to extroverts. She wasn’t afraid to elbow her way into someone’s life and clean their filthy stove or paint their entire living room. That’s how she showed up for people — suddenly, with her entire loud presence, brimming with sarcasm and biting humor.

Her fierce, controlling, Clara-knows-best energy had overwhelmed and dazzled me throughout my life, but it was hard to deal with the weekend of Ana’s funeral. I was exhausted and disconnected. I couldn’t manage Clara’s expectations or her energy. I was glad she was there, but I was equally glad when she left.

After that last visit, I failed miserably at showing up for her. I didn’t take the trip to see her new home. I rarely called. I missed her father’s funeral. I’d been trying to navigate life after Ana, learning how to carry my heavy grief without completely falling apart. I called her occasionally, but our conversations were clipped and forced.

We’d had a fractious relationship during those years, with Clara prone to dropping out of my life for months at a time. Long stretches of silence were the norm.

I was a disappointment. She didn’t say this, but she didn’t have to. What she did say in one of our last conversations was that I didn’t know how to talk about anything but my own pain anymore. She said I was stuck. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am. I simply have no more energy left for Clara’s expectations. Being ghosted turned out to be a relief. But it still hurts, the way it ended. There was no closure.

I should’ve said that I still cared about her, even though I couldn’t be who she needed me to be. I should’ve admitted how much it hurt being friends with someone whose expectations you can never live up to. I should’ve made it clear that the way she dealt with her anger and disappointment — by continually disappearing from my life — was too much for my heart to bear after Ana died.

After three years, I’ve forgiven myself for not being the person Clara needed me to be. I also recognize that maybe she wasn’t the person I needed her to be either. I’ve been to therapy. I’ve made new friends. I’ve come to realize that sometimes friendships last one season and sometimes they endure through old age. There are no rules in this game, but I wish I’d said goodbye. Our friendship was incredibly special, and it deserved a proper farewell.

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Eight years ago, my neighbor (I’ll call him “Dave”) lost his house. On the day it happened, a deputy showed up and stood on the curb while two men moved Dave’s belongings to his front lawn.

Dave had been in foreclosure for most of 2017 and 2018, but I didn’t know this. I found out when a man knocked on my door to see if Dave was still living in the house.

“Yes, of course,” I told the man. “I just spoke with him on, um…”

I couldn’t recall when I last spoke to Dave. Had it been two weeks? Three? Had it been longer? I looked at Dave’s overgrown yard, at the abandoned car in the carport, and at the sagging awning cluttered with leaves. I felt like the world’s worst neighbor. But I’d been checked out of life for a while. I was still reeling from losing my daughter Ana the previous year.

While Dave and I weren’t good friends, we were friendly. I fed his cat when he was away. He had a key to my house and had likewise fed my animals when I was away. Our daughters were best friends once upon a time. Now Dave’s daughter is twenty-six and engaged. Ana would’ve turned twenty-five next month, if not for the cancer.

I watched the man leave, all those years ago, and texted Dave to give him a heads up. I urged him to come back and take what he could because at some point, likely very soon, the bank would send people to reclaim the house, locking him out. A few weeks later, that’s exactly what happened.

“The sheriff is here,” I texted Dave. “They’re putting your things on the lawn. You have twenty-four hours to come get what you want before they haul it away.”

“I have what I want,” he replied.

“I’m glad,” I texted, a lump in my throat.

Dave did come home one last time. He brought some friends. They filled cars and pickups with whatever they could carry. It hadn’t been much. Then he left his house behind forever.

In that frozen January, just weeks after Christmas, Dave’s things had been strewn across his front lawn, exposed to the elements and the neighbors, for days.

I took heartbreaking inventory of Dave’s stuff every morning as my dog did his business — a fully decorated Christmas tree, his kitchen table (the chairs circling it like worshippers at an altar), a few battered stuffed animals, two dozen black garbage bags bulging with clothes, books and toys, a wicker side table, broken and covered with dust.

After a few days, neighbors began dropping by — curious at first, then greedy. They picked through the pile and dumped out the bags. They walked away with armloads of Dave’s memories.

The clean-up crew eventually came — a few guys with trucks — and spent an afternoon clearing out the yard. They were supposed to have it done in a day, but it turned out that the stuff on the lawn was only a tiny fraction of what remained inside Dave’s home. One of the workers saw me retrieving my mail and, eyes haunted, said, “Do you have kids?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“Don’t leave this kind of mess for them to clean up when you die.”

It was a terrible thing to say to a bereaved parent, but I only nodded.

He couldn’t have known that my daughter had died the previous year or that I’d agonized about what to do with her meager possessions. I’d bought her most of Ana’s things of course, her clothes, her furniture, the candles and tumbled stones she’d loved. And, while these things reminded me of her, going through each item with love and sadness taught me a surprising lesson. We are not our things.

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I watched, fascinated, as the workers hauled piles of discarded clutter from Dave’s house, removing the framed photos, the scarlet curtains that had decorated his windows for over a decade, an old piano, the refrigerator full of rotting food (duct-taped shut), mattresses, and hundreds of empty beer cans and liquor bottles.

Dave had accumulated decades of clutter — truckloads of it — and it was gone in days. The house where he’d grown up and raised his children had been scrubbed clean in under a week. I wondered if it was for the best that other people were tasked with disposing of it.

When the men left, nothing remained, not even the old car that had been parked in the same spot since the day it had failed to start a decade earlier. They’d mowed the battered lawn. They’d put padlocks on the doors. The house was empty and ready for a new beginning.

I wondered what it had been like for Dave being surrounded by so much clutter. He’d lived for several years among the remnants of his childhood and of a family that no longer existed. But what did I know? He barely lived in the house the year before the bank took it. Perhaps it no longer held meaning for him. Maybe it was just a weight around his neck filled with useless things.

It’s tempting to romanticize someone else’s story — the failed dreams of a broken marriage, childhood toys discarded in a heap, loneliness and loss. But we can’t really understand anyone else’s life, not even when everything they own is piled up on their front lawn. Dave had taken what he needed and moved on. Just like his empty house, he was ready for a new beginning. I truly wish him well.

This was Dave’s tragedy, not mine, but watching it unfold in front of me was triggering. I’d just lost Ana and it seemed to me that nothing was stable or safe, that the world could collapse in a heartbeat.

Dave’s things told me more about myself than about him. They reminded me of my own grief. It had immobilized me. It had made even the simplest tasks seem impossible. In those early days of grief, a rolling emptiness swallowed me. I could do nothing more than ride the days and try to bear it.

And now? I’m still prone to getting stuck in that rolling emptiness. It’s always tempting to stay close to home, to the place where Ana once played and sang and grew. There is a part of me that used to wait for her, hoping that if I stayed vigilant, she’ll return. But even that part has faded now that it’s been nearly nine years since she died.

And yet, my heart still cries out against change. It wants to keep things as they are now, if not exactly as they were when she died. Like Dave, my house is filled with the debris from my past. My psyche wants nothing more than to hunker down within the clutter of Ana’s childhood forever, waiting, as I turn to dust.

After the workers took the final truckload of Dave’s belongings away, I walked through every room in my house and tried to imagine strangers putting my things into black garbage bags and tossing the furniture out the windows. I’d pictured the neighbors picking through it, finding treasure in my old memories.

But maybe that’s not so bad. Do I really need all this stuff? That literal walk through memory lane was a catalyst. It was jarring enough to snap me out of the paralyzing grief that kept me from letting go of some of Ana’s things.

My daughters grew up in this house. One of them died in this house. If I threw everything out, the walls would remember Ana. If every room was suddenly empty, the space around me would be filled with her. If I move to the other side of the world with only the clothes on my back, I’d take her memory with me. What else is there, really?

Eight years ago, I started the process of uncluttering this house from an imagined center of open space. I’m still doing this. There is less clutter, but it’s harder to part with my things than I realized.

Decluttering a life is a slow and cathartic process. But it’s rewarding. It’s necessary. My plan is to continue going through each room and uncollecting its contents, letting them fall from my life until I’m all that remains.

When I’m done, the house will be much emptier, but it will hold many more open spaces. There will be room for my grief to expand when it needs to and room to display the things that truly matter — artwork, photos, and little else.

Someday I’ll leave what will hopefully be a very few precious treasures. I like to imagine that whoever hauls it away will wonder how I managed to get by with so little.

Thank you for being here. If you’re considering becoming a paid subscriber, now’s the time! I’m giving away an original piece of artwork to all paid subscribers and sweetening the deal with 30% off a paid subscription through the end of the year (and maybe even until spring).

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A version of this story was published in HerStories.

1978 — West Babylon, NY

I am six. The snow reaches my waist. Our front lawn curves gently down to the street, with one perfect spot for sledding. When I try to walk to the highest point, I get stuck. I am unable to forge through the thickest drifts and quickly become exhausted, cheeks pink, hands frozen.

I probably went back inside. I probably had hot chocolate. I probably curled up beneath a blanket and peered at the snow from my bedroom window. The image of that day is just a snapshot in my mind: the white arc of our lawn, the silent snow-covered street, and my smallness in the face of nature’s enormity.

1993 — Huntington, NY

I am twenty-two and living on my own. My car is a bucket of bolts held together by hope. The heat doesn’t work. The windshield wipers don’t work. The rear bumper is smashed and attached to the car with duct tape. I’m driving when the blizzard hits, on my way to drop off Dictaphone tapes and a floppy disk filled with typed reports for my side gig as a medical transcriptionist.

My best friend has tied the useless windshield wipers together with our shoe laces and she’s hanging out the passenger-side window, pulling the wipers manually back and forth across the windshield. I can see just enough to navigate the silent, slippery streets.

Somehow we make it back to my tiny apartment before the streets became completely impassable. Our ringing laughter, our youth, and the freedom of doing something incredibly stupid lingers in my memory decades after the snow has melted.

1996 — West Shokan, NY

I am twenty-five and have just started dating the man who will become my husband. We’re staying at his mother’s weekend house in the Catskills. I’ve grown up on Long Island, but rarely been north of Manhattan. I am dazzled by the beauty of this place, by the endless trees and the Ashokan Reservoir with its circle of mountains that take my breath away.

We plan to stay for the weekend and drive home Sunday night to get back to our crappy jobs in the morning. But the snow starts Saturday and doesn’t let up for the entire weekend. It’s two feet of relentless white in every direction.

We dig a path from the porch to the half-mile driveway. It’s hours of shoveling. We wait for someone to plow us out. The Thruway is closed. My future husband gets sick with strep throat and a doctor friend we know calls in an antibiotic. I drive ten miles on terrible roads to pick it up, careening off the road into a high snow bank. A kind passerby helps pull my car free. I’ve been afraid to drive in the snow ever since.

It’s Wednesday by the time we make it home. I can’t stop thinking about the Catskills, about the snow on the trees, the quiet, the way I was forced to pause until the path was clear again. We leave Long Island six months later and never go back.

2003 — Kingston, NY

I am thirty-two. We are in our new home with our toddler when the snow descends on Valentine’s Day. I only remember Ana, her tiny feet, her wide blue eyes, the way she stares at the falling snow with endless wonder.

2007 — Kingston, NY

I am thirty-six and it’s another Valentine’s Day storm. My girls are 3 and 6. They’re delighted to receive gift bags filled with candy hearts and toys. It is Emily’s first blizzard and the snow has her spellbound. The girls are growing so fast that only half their snow gear fits.

I dress them in mismatched coats, thick snow pants, hats scavenged from the bottom of the closet. I put my gloves on Ana’s small hands and Ana’s old boots on Emily’s feet. We go outside in our inadequate gear and disturb the perfect canvas of white.

We throw snowballs. We make snowmen. We carve snow angels with our bodies, arms and legs pinwheeling to make the wings. We stay outside until our fingers are numb, until the snow coats our hair and eyelashes, until our cheeks turn bright red. Once inside, we watch rented Pixar movies, eat popcorn, and drink cocoa. Then we go outside and do it all over again.

2013 — Manhattan, NY

I am forty-two, perched on a wide window ledge within the cavernous halls of Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital. I watch the snow coat West 165th Street, fill the sidewalks, sideline cars and trucks. Ana has recently been released from the PICU after having a liver transplant earlier in the week.

The hospital, overwhelmed with RSV and flu cases, is eerily silent. With the roads impassable, we are on our own for the time being. Ana has survived the surgery. Her tumor is gone, excised from her body along with her liver. She can start getting better now.

2014 — Kingston, NY

I am forty-three and school is closed. We are all excited for the storm. Ana had surgery to remove a new tumor near her pelvis just three days ago, but you’d never know it to look at her. The girls, 13 and 10, forge their way outside without me. They dive into the thickest spots while I yell at Ana to take it easy. She is still healing. Her puffy coat is bright pink against the snow. Her hair has grown back curly after the chemo. The girls lie side by side and make snow angels together.

2017 — Kingston, NY

I am forty-five and Ana is dying. It snows nearly every weekend from January through March. Day after day, Ana asks me to bring her fresh snow from the yard so she can eat it. I fill cups and bowls and glasses, replenishing them when the snow melts.

Ana’s breath is shallow and the snow is too deep for her to move through, just as it was for me all those winters ago when I was six. Her feet are so swollen, her boots don’t fit. I order plush wool socks to keep her warm. I keep bringing her snow to fill her bottomless thirst.

Throughout the winter, we watch the snow fall from the windows of the house that Ana will never leave again. Emily plays video games with Ana or watches YouTube. She stays in her room unless Ana calls her. There is still snow on the ground when Ana dies in March.

2021 — Kingston, NY

I am forty-nine and we’ve had another 2-foot blizzard. Our snowblower is dead, so I hire a stranger to plow my driveway. He pushes the snow too close to the house, blocking us in. We spend two hours digging a path from the steps to the driveway. He helps me a bit, but has more driveways to clear. I don’t mind. It’s nice to see another human being. The pandemic has kept us shut inside our house for over a year. We wear masks and shovel in the dark.

2026 — Kingston, NY

I am fifty-four and the snow takes me by surprise. We’ve already had several storms this winter, starting in December, but this is the first real blizzard. My husband has managed to fix the snowblower and get the generator running — just in case.

The snow starts in the morning around the same time I round up the dogs to take them out. This is my favorite time for a storm to start. The sun comes up as the first flakes fall. I fill the bird feeders, take photos of the first coating of snow on my lawn, and watch the action from my office window for the rest of the day. It is relentless for the next 24 hours. I make a bird feeding station under a table. I shovel a path for my two tiny dogs. I stay inside because it is bitterly cold.

At around 7 pm the snowblower won’t start and the three of us work together to clear the driveway for the second time. My back aches. My wrists hurt. The plow keeps going by as we toil in the dark. I wonder if Ana is watching us clear out the driveway where she once played. I hope so.

The snow from this storm lingers for weeks as a cold front keeps the Hudson Valley in frigid below-zero temperatures. The snow is paused at two feet deep in many places. The birdbath has disappeared. It is as if the world is holding its breath. By now I’ve learned to appreciate the stillness. We’ll have six more weeks of cold and snow, but spring will eventually be here again.

This installment of Arkomo’s imaginings includes a delightful reading nook, some “extra things” courtesy of Levi P., a mall (Ana loved the mall), an animal shelter, and lots of other wonderful surprises.

The title of each post in this series comes directly from a sentence that a child wrote (one that struck me as particularly wonderful.) The title of this post, “I looked around and saw it was made of toys,” comes from Mason M. who created a place in Arkomo called “Under Construction.”

View part 1: They sleep in beds of gummies

View part 2: Their bats are bones and they use their mouths to swing the ball

41 - Community Project by Hudson R.

What Hudson says: To add to Arkomo, here is what I have created. I have created a part of Arkomo called Arkomo Community Neighborhood. Here, Ana and her friends can hang out and even go swimming. I am really happy that Ana’s friends now have a place to stay.

42 - Presley’s Silly Fun World

What Presley says: Hi. I wanted to make a new version so I made an animal shelter. I wanted all the animals to have fun, so I added things all animals will like. Lets say they live in water. There’s a water park. There’s also a pool for them to have fun. Lets say they live in the jungle. I made a vine play area. That’s what I made for Ana cause I just want her to be happy.

43 - Creek Lodge by Julianna J.

What Julianna says: What if there was a new part of Arkomo? A part that wasn’t able to be created. Well, I created an area of Arkomo called Creek Lodge, a hotel for animals and people to relax and have fun. It includes a water park, candy shops, restaurants, and a theme park. Creek lodge is a nonprofit run only on donations and is dedicated to safety and fun.

44 - The Reading Nook by Lizzie J.

What Lizzie says: In a small corner of Arkomo, a dim candle lit room illuminates a two-pillowed couch made out of what appears to be leather. On the couch, a dog lay there. She reads, occasionally flipping pages with its nose, breathing softly. It glances at you every once in a while. It’s soft expression always evident.

45 - Extra Things by Levi P.

What Levi says: I would add pizza, pepperoni pizza of course. I would add a big Christmas tree with red and green ornaments. I will add some dogs, friendly trained pit bull dogs, and last but not least, a crayon. Not just any crayon, but a gray crayon.

46 - Charlee’s Mall by Charlee M.

What Charlee says: This mall has clothes, animals, food court, and she is the only one that can use it. It’s a three story mall filled with joy. There is a Christmas tree right in the middle and Santa Claus will be there giving out gifts.

47 - Under Construction by Mason M.

What Mason says: When I found Arkomo, I realized that it was way more different than the real world. I looked around and saw it was made of toys. I saw that it didn’t have a police station or fire department. After a month, they all were done. Now I need to figure out how to run them on my own.

48 - The Church by Bryce D.

What Bryce says: his church looks like a big holy church of God’s word. I saw that some of the dogs in your world were lonely, so I came up with a church if the dogs are having a bad day or if they want to learn about Jesus. I hope this helps Ana’s imaginary world.

49 - Ana’s Santa Workshop by Keaolani

What Keaolani says: What I made for Ana is a workshop for Santa. What it does is help [clean] up all the presents and gifts. Santa also ha elves that help too. I love to help people in need. I hope Ana loves my creation. But if you celebrate Hannukah, then it will be a Hannukah workshop. It will help for all the days of Hannukah. I hope Ana loves my creation.

50 - An Animal Shelter by Brooke

What Brooke says: I want to create a part of Arkomo that’s about animals like where people can take of the animals in the shelter. In the shelter there is food, water, beds, and rugs the animals could lay on. There are fish, foxes, dogs, cats, rodents, birds, snakes, definitely not spiders. I do not like spiders. They’re scary.

51 - Mirror Land by Brennan M.

What Brennan says: I have created a part of Arkomo called “Mirror Land.” In this world, everything is made of reflective glass. It is impossible to shatter, even if it’s hit by the strongest person ever. There is a whole playground and a mirror-themed restaurant.

52 - Alayna’s Art Gallery by Alayna M.

What Alayna says: My place is “Alayna’s Art Gallery.” You can learn how to paint or draw and after there is a snack shack if you are hungry after these 5 start lessons...”

53 - Silly Funny Living Space by Milli

What Milli says: I created a new part of Arkomo called Silly Funny Living space which is a photo booth. I created this space in hopes that anyone can find the comedic gold in every situation. I envisioned Silly Funny Living Space to look like an ordinary photo booth that is purple on the outside, with matching stylish curtain, and has orange writing on the outside. Inside the booth has an orange squishy seat and across you have a screen that has many backgrounds to choose from. What I love most about the photo booth is the front with the curtain. The way the monkey on the background compliments the outer artwork is a whimsical detail.

54 - Zookomo by Giacomo M.

What Giacomo says: I created a new part of Arkomo called Zookomo. I imaged it this way because I feel like Ana’s animals need to have someone to see their tricks they can do.

55 - Smith’s Food & Drug by Nika

What Nika says: I made a Smiths cause everyone needs food and Smiths also has a Starbucks. My mom and I go for food and drink. People need food and water to live and thrive.

56 - Roman Stadium by Roman

What Roman says: Roman Stadium is a hockey rink you can see the shining bright lights from miles away. The undefeated team the bulldogs they have won three championships in a row but their rivals the Scratch Attacks have only lost one game to the Bulldogs. I hope this honors Ana.

That concludes the final installment of The Arkomo Project. If you didn’t catch the links at the top, head on over here to see the first installment and here for the second installment. Every single one of these projects has honored Ana and her imaginary world. A big thank you to Ms. Rachel and all the kids for making my tired heart happy.

//

Thank you for being here. While everything I write on Substack will always be free, paid subscriptions help support me as an independent writer (and freelancer). Did you know that I’m also an artist? I’m giving away an original piece of artwork to all paid subscribers and sweetening the deal with 30% off a paid subscription through the end of the January (and maybe even until spring).

Subscribe for 30% Off + Free Art

This installment of Arkomo’s imaginings includes a remote control refrigerator with wheels, a planetarium, a zoo, a vet, parks of all shapes and sizes, sports fields, and so much more.

The title of each post in this series comes directly from a sentence that a child wrote (one that struck me as particularly wonderful.) The title of this post, “Their bats are bones and they use their mouths to swing at the ball,” comes from Katelyn who created a place in Arkomo called “Dog-ders Stadium.”

View part 1 of this 3-part series here…

21 - A Refrigerator With Wheels by Linken

What Linken says: This refrigerator is a cool refrigerator, you wish you had but could never afford. I created this to be a thing Ana would love. I also hope all the animals will enjoy the drinks and snacks inside. There is even a remote to control this refrigerator which you can move to go anyplace around the house.

22 - The Farmers Market by Akiel H.

What Akiel says: At the farmers market, you will see bright colors of the freshly picked fruit. The people of Arkomo can buy all the fruit they desire. While they buy food, they can chat with their neighbors. The welcoming energy makes you want to stay longer.

23 - Magi Paka by Aurora G.

What Aurora says: The Magi Paka is an aquatic animal that has a lot of characteristics. They’re colors ranging from blue, pink, yellow, purple, orange, or even brown! About 75% of Magi Pakas are found in the pacific ocean and 25% of other Magi Pakas are in the Indian ocean. They have lungs to breathe air. They are the fastest animals in the ocean.

24 - Dogville by Caleb

What Caleb says: Dogville is a fun place where dogs get to have fun and play. Also the factory produces food for dogs to never get hungry. Also the dogs never get bored because there is an orchestra. Also there are all types of dogs like Corgis, Dalmatians, mutts, and Daschunds.

25 - Addie’s Ballet Palace by Addie

What Addie says: One morning, Ana woke up, thought to herself, and started to feel really sad because she forgot that she has dance today. She also had dance yesterday and they all made fun of her because she didn’t have any hair. So she ran to the store and went straight to the wig section. She looks over and sees a girl about her age. She was going to dance class too. She instantly went over there. Turns out it was the girl who bullied her because she was very bald. Ana just gave her a big hug and said it’s okay, there is so much explaining to do, but all I care about is if you are okay? She said yes! And Ana lived happily ever after.

26 - Arkomo Zoo by Vinson

What Vinson says: I made a zoo for all the lost animals. I also made a petting zoo, a frog pen, and a play center. There is an aquarium for all the sea animals. I saw the petting zoo has pigs and racoons. There is a duck crossing station and the [pet] center has dogs.

27 - Dog-ders Stadium by Katelyn

What Katelyn says: I would love to add a baseball stadium to Arkomo. I see that Ana loves dogs, so I am going to add the Dog-ders Stadium. In Arkomo’s stadium, there are cats instead of umpires and fire hydrants as bases. Their bats are bones and they use their mouths to swing at the ball. I am so honored to help finish Ana’s story.

28 - Ramzey’s Vet by Ramzey H.

What Ramzey says: I named it this because many animals will most likely get sick. Ramzey’s Vet takes care of every animal citizen of Arkomo. It is the real place to go for animal emergencies. If any pet gets sick, we can cure them for free. You can also get 5 lollipops for free each visit.

29 - Austin’s Water Park by Austin

What Austin says: I created a new part of Arkomo called Austin’s Water Park. I imagined it this way because all the sea animals had nowhere to go, so I made it so they had somewhere to go. My favorite part is the water slide for other animals to have fun.

30 - Starfall Planetarium by Dezmond

What Dezmond says: I created a new part of Arkomo called “Starfall Planetarium.” I imagined it this way because the animals are able to learn about outer space. My favorite part of what I made is the Starfall star projector so the animals can see a projection of space.

31 - Castle Corner by Shiloh

What Shiloh says: A fun place for playing tabletop games, to read a book, or just hang out at the cafe. The cafe includes foods like lasagna, pizza, or a good old apple. Don’t worry. The entree fee is $0.00, with another $0.00 for stuff like food or games. You can also use the library for books to take home!

32 - Taste Town by James V.

What James says: I created a new part of Arkomo called Taste Town. Taste Town brings in many people to come and try Ana’s food. Taste Town is very colorful and vibrant that makes it even more popular. The food I liked that Ana made was chicken and rice because the chicken was cooked perfectly and the rice was perfectly cooked.

33 - Arkomo Fair by Finn

What Finn says: I chose the fair because I like going every year with my family and winning cool prizes. I also like riding the Ferris wheel because I get an awesome view. Another thing I like about the fair is the yummy food. That is why I chose the fair for Arkomo’s world.

34 - Arkomo Park by Carson M.

What Carson says: I choose a park because I like going to the park with my family and going on all of the rides and playing all of the games and trying all of the food because I like food and going on my favorite ride.

35 - Jonathon’s Soccer Field by Jonathon

What Jonathon says: My soccer field is a good place to be happy for the animals. They can be kicking the ball when they are angry. They can use it for playing football. They are happy when they invite their friends to the soccer field. They can throw parties at the field. And they can host animal tournaments. They can play kick ball.

36 - Baseball Field by Kyron

What Kyron says: So what I would want to add is a baseball field. So the puppies can play baseball. I think it would be cool to see puppies play baseball. That’s what I would add.

37 - Physical Activities by Roman L.

What Roman says: My world is physical activities. If the animals want to play they can play hockey, baseball, soccer, and football. Each one can play a different sport and I think they will have so much fun. I hope they enjoy it.

38 - Passage Express by Raquel M.

What Raquel says: I created a new part of Arkomo called Passage Express. This extended part of Arkomo is a hustling and bustling train station. The Arkomo train station is a large structure with a ticket counter, waiting rooms, and a raised platform where passengers wait for the Passenger Express train to take them to their destination. I imagined this world as an escape that is full of adventure and the company of the friendly noise and sights of excited crowds.

39 - Goldie’s Ice Rink by Brayden S.

What Brayden says: I decided to add an ice rink because it’s one of my favorite playing hockey. I met my best friend there. I was two when I started skating and playing hockey at the age of five. So basically my whole life.

40 - Annaka’s Christmas Tree by Annaka W.

What Annaka says: When I saw Ana’s world I thought it could use some Christmas spirit. I am adding a Christmas tree to Arkomo. This tree can also transform into another plant. This way it can light up the whole room! I’m also adding gifts underneath for the animals and the people in Arkomo!

That concludes this installment of The Arkomo Project. If you didn’t catch the link at the top, head on over here to see the first installment. I’ll publish the final installment next Sunday. Until then, stay magical, kids (and play lots of sports).

//

Thank you for being here. While everything I write on Substack will always be free, paid subscriptions help support me as an independent writer (and freelancer). Did you know that I’m also an artist? I’m giving away an original piece of artwork to all paid subscribers and sweetening the deal with 30% off a paid subscription through the end of the January (and maybe even until spring).

Ana died from cancer at age 15. I kept most of the toys she used when she built and played with Arkomo. I shared photos of these toys with Rachel and the kids and they used them as prompts to come up with their incredible imaginings. This post has more details about Rachel’s Arkomo Project and here is my essay about Arkomo which was originally featured in HuffPost.

I received 58 Arkomo projects from the kids, an incredible gift two days before Christmas. I’ll be posting a group of them every Sunday for the next few weeks, starting today. The title of each post comes from a sentence that a child wrote (one that struck me as particularly wonderful.) The title of this post, “They sleep in beds of gummies,” comes from Ella, who created a place in Arkomo called “Animal Kingdom.”

Kids, I love all your projects. Thank you for honoring Ana and her world. Here are the first 20 projects, in no particular order. To my readers, please don’t hold back with your comments - the kids will be reading them!

1 - Animal Kingdom by Ella

What Ella says: The Animal Kingdom can be found in my play room. It’s a forest filled with wild trees that reach to Heaven. You can find large capybaras, black bears, and chubby pigs who all eat Skittles. The weather is usually sunny with cotton candy clouds. The animals play on slide rocks near the river. They sleep in beds of gummies.

2 - Bark in the Park by Livia B.

What Livia says: My creation is a dog park called “Bark in the Park.” This dog park is different than any other dog park because it has a doggy restaurant. This restaurant is a place where dogs can go and get a meal or snack in between playing. The park includes plenty of shade, grass, and water stations. There also is a doggy obstacle course with tunnels and ramps for them to run and play!

3 - Blaze’s Baseball Complex by Blaze J.

What Blaze says: In Blaze’s Baseball Complex, you walk in then you see all the shops that have jewelry and shirts. Then you walk down this cool path. Then the path goes to a catch field. There are four fields in total. Then there is a concession stand in the middle of all the fields. Then there is a batting cage where you could try any bat in the world.

4 - David’s Pet Sanctuary by David H.

What David says: My pet sanctuary is the biggest ever. It has so many treats and the best toys ever. They have the biggest backyard ever. And the best thing is the softest blankets ever.

5 - Ella’s Great Ideas by Ella V.

What Ella says: I thought we could add a car so she can travel to all the places she wants to! We can add an eating area. After all that traveling, she can eat.

6 - Granger Ice Rink by Davis

What Davis says: The ice rink is for the animals to skate around for fun. After, they can rest if they’re tired. It looks like [three].

7 - Mason’s Aquarium by Mason

What Mason says: When I saw Arkomo, I saw that all the sea animals had nowhere to swim. So I thought that her world could use an aquarium. All the land animals could walk through and see all the sea animals.

8 - Soccer Field by Luca

What Luca says: I made a soccer field. It has a park next to it and on the right there’s a restroom. There’s a big parking lot and 4 entrances. I would go there every day.

9 - The Great Forest by Colin A.

What Colin says: The Great Forest is where all of Arkomo’s animals came from. Some animals that live in the Great Forest are squirrels, raccoons, pigs, bunnies, lizards, and foxes. The animals of the Great Forest have built themselves homes out of wood and stone. Every house has two stories, two windows, and one door. The animals placed some of their houses on the ground, while others put them in the beautiful lively spruce and oak trees in the forest.

10 - The Storm Hockey Rink by Landon F.

What Landon says: The new part of Arkomo is named The Storm Hockey Rink. I imagined this hockey rink has purple, black, and white lights around the ice and in the stands. There’s a snack bar that has yummy snacks and healthy foods. My favorite part of Arkomo is the churros and the healthy food. The players get pumped when they eat the food at the snack bar. I hope this new part of Arkomo honors Ana’s imagination and brings you joy.

11 - Tristan’s Water World by Tristan P.

What Tristan says: I chose this creation because I want Ana’s animals to have fun and exciting water slides. This would hopefully bring joy and happiness to her animals. I also want them to have food at the food stands. I hope you like this creation.

12 - Viridian Garden by Ella Rae S.

What Ella Ray says: I imagined a special garden as a new part of Arkomo. Garden nymphs lead people to the garden. There are huge, towering trees, and beautiful flowers along with lots of animals. There are butterflies and hummingbirds that make the flowers bloom. My favorite part of the garden is the magical wishing well in the center of the garden.

13 - Winter Cabin by Ana

What Ana says: I chose a Winter Cabin because I noticed that Ana’s winter animals didn’t have a place to go. There is also a place to warm up, the winter cabin. I also like chilling inside when it’s cold, so I added a warm fuzzy bed inside the cabin.

14 - Zootopia by Emily B.

What Emily says: My world Zootopia would include a specific area for each and every animal. I really enjoyed looking at all the pictures of everything in her world. I love Ana’s humor in where she placed all the animals in her creation. Her creativity humor really shines in her project, which is what inspired me to create this world of Zootopia.

15 - Wonder World by Logan I.

What Logan says: Wonder World is a world that I remade with only my friends, family, and cousins. Everyone has a pack of crayons or markers. You can make anything you draw. If you draw something dangerous, you can’t let anybody get hurt. Also, you can have any pet, even a wolf that you can ride. There is no school and there are laws.

16 - Grayson’s Field of Dreams by Grayson

What Grayson says: I created a new part of Arkomo called Grayson’s Field of Dreams. I imagined it this way because I noticed that Ana’s animals did not have sports fields as a place to play baseball or whatever sport they choose. My favorite part of what I made is the detail I added so that you can really imagine what they are doing. I liked this because if the animals are bored, they just play a game of baseball and this will make them happy.

17 - Arkoday by Teagan D.

What Teagan says: This is my holiday that we celebrate in Arkomo. It has parades with country music and floats with various artists from around the world. Everyone comes to sing and dance. People have been quoted saying it is the “best parade in the world.” This started years ago when there was only one living creature on the planet Arkomo. She was all alone with nothing to do.

One day, she found a tree and that tree had wood for her to use. She started with a wooden bed, then a table, then chairs, and eventually the world was full. Once she was done making items, she created animals just like her. We will always celebrate this day with a feast. The feast has food from different holidays.

No one has ever left hungry! There is corned beef and cabbage from St. Patrick’s Day, turkey from Thanksgiving, ham from easter, gingerbread cookies from Christmas, and so much more. The holiday may be celebrated with feats and parades, but this holiday is about the birth of Arkomo.

18 - Ana’s Volleyball Court by Rilynn

What Rilynn says: Ana’s Volleyball Court is a place where the animals come to play. I am hopeful for them to enjoy the sport and for the pets to look forward to after school so they can have fun with friends. Hope you like it as much as me.

19 - Aquarkomo by Samuel B.

What Samuel says: Aquarkomo comes from the words aqua and Arkomo. Aquarkomo has three sections: fish, sharks, and sting rays. The section with fish has clown fish, puffer fish, and tuna fish. The shark section has hammerhead sharks, tiger sharks, and a great white shark. The sting ray section has black, yellow, black and white, and blue sting rays.

20 - Pete = Painting by Ashlynn K.

What Ashlynn says: I chose Pete = Painting because no one was at the paint table. I also love to paint. I want the pets to have this because I want them to have everything they love to do. Pete = Painting is a place for fun and kindness where you can explore the paint or learn to paint. I hope you can fit this in the book for me.

Thank you for being here. While everything I write on Substack will always be free, paid subscriptions help support me as an independent writer (and freelancer). Did you know that I’m also an artist? I’m giving away an original piece of artwork to all paid subscribers and sweetening the deal with 30% off a paid subscription through the end of the January (and maybe even until spring).

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In October 2016 my 15-year-old daughter Ana was dying. That was also the month that Trump was campaigning hard in his bid to win the election against Hillary Clinton. Ana didn’t really care about politics, but she watched the news and debates with us that month with a modicum of interest.

At the time, we thought America was on the cusp of having its first female president. At one point, we were watching news coverage of a Trump rally in Nevada and my breath caught in my throat when Trump urged terminally ill people to vote for him.

“I don’t care how sick you are,” he said. “I don’t care if you just came back from the doctor and he gave you the worst possible prognosis, meaning it’s over. Doesn’t matter. Hang out till November 8. Get out and vote.”

I don’t care how sick you are.

The words made my heart hurt. Did he know that real dying people — even children — might hear those words? Was it some kind of joke to him? My daughter rolled her eyes and asked us to stop watching shows about politics. But Trump’s thoughtless words stuck with me. They were a portent, a sign of something monstrous lurking within a man who would soon become incredibly powerful.

He was so callous, so crass, so devoid of self awareness. Trump’s casual dismissal of other people’s suffering struck me as deeply evil. And yet, I had no idea how depraved he was.

Ten years later, we’re living through a time of monstrous cruelty and corruption. It’s an era of evil driven by a man that destroys everything he touches.

Back when I still had delusions of becoming a (successful) novelist, I wanted to understand evil so that I could create characters with believably twisted motivations. I struggled with this a lot. It was hard for me to understand the motivations behind the most common tropes. It was one thing to create a nihilistic “let’s burn the world down” villain or a ruthless “do anything to get what she wants” bad guy. But the "why” behind a given villain’s motivation to do harm escaped me.

Narnia’s queen keeps the world in perpetual winter so she can remain in power. But doesn’t that mean she also has to live in a frigid hellscape for all eternity?

Lord Sauron brings death and darkness to Middle Earth so that he can rule it. But then what does he really get except an ugly view from his back porch?

The Joker is a sociopathic murderer who delights in creating chaos and pain for his own amusement. This last one might be more understandable because you can blame trauma, an origin story, and fragmentation of sanity. Maybe that’s the case with Trump. Maybe his flavor of evil is all about a broken mind, but what about all the people who are enabling him?

Why set the world on fire if you then have to live in it? Why live in a frozen wasteland even if you get to rule it? How do you reconcile the decisions you’re making—the ones that harm and kill millions—with your own sense of self-righteousness?

Trump is a good study of evil. He moves through the world like a caricature of an actual person, the physical embodiment of the seven deadly sins. He is greed personified. He is lust, gluttony, wrath, envy, sloth, and pride. The offhand comment Trump made about dying people ten years ago was the tip of the iceberg.

Since then, he’s accrued a long list of atrocious responses to other peoples’ tragedies. He dismisses mass shootings, scoffs at hurricane victims, and revels in political violence (particularly when it’s against democrats). He doesn’t mind violence against his supporters either. They exist to serve him. He uses violence as a cudgel against his critics—even when that violence isn’t related to anything political.

There is no compassion in his response to other people’s suffering, no self reflection, no ability to see beyond his own feral desire for power, adoration, money, comfort, and unending praise.

He has all of these things. His every wish has been granted. And still, he looks miserable. He’s getting what he wants. He’s watching people suffer. He’s living a life of decadence and wealth, but it’s not enough. Maybe, somewhere in his diseased brain, he realizes that he’s just a puppet. That’s what I find the scariest part about what’s happening in America right now.

The evil, the cruelty, the violence, the decent into authoritarianism—it doesn’t stop with our orange circus peanut of a president. It begins with him. Trump is the catalyst that has propelled America into a new normal. He’s the person making evil acceptable. It’s been quite a lesson for me.

Evil is an offhand comment that makes a dying person feel expendable. It’s the careless dismissal of someone else’s pain. It’s the mockery of empathy as weakness. It’s a lack of curiosity about people and cultures and beliefs that are different than yours.

Evil is entitlement, it’s colonialism, it’s the declaration (with absolutely no irony) that you can demand someone’s land and resources and allegiance simply because you are bigger and stronger than them. Evil is greed. It’s the endless consumption of the world for your own benefit. Evil is a lot like cancer. It keeps growing and consuming what’s healthy because that’s its nature and it won’t stop until it kills the host (and thus itself).

Stephen Miller shrieks about American power, about entitlement, about his own idea of supremacy (white, male, straight, wealthy) with the vehemence of a True Believer. To Miller, any person who differs from his openly racist and xenophobic view of the the world, isn’t a person at all.

Pam Bondi is a Trump sycophant who uses her power as Attorney General to suppress valid allegations of horrendous crimes committed by her dear leader, further traumatizing his victims.

Kristi Noem shot her own puppy rather than rehome him because the puppy belonged to her. It didn’t do the job she wanted it to do. She felt entitled to its life. She reveled in the suffering of innocent people deported to a concentration camp in El Salvador. She is a snake, coiled around a prize only she can see. I hate her most of all.

It doesn’t surprise me at all that the Trump Administration is trying to portray Renee Nicole Good, the young mother of three who was recently murdered by an ICE agent in Minneapolis as a domestic terrorist who deserved to be shot point blank in the face. There are videos of Good’s death that make it clear she wasn’t a threat to the agent who shot her. But I guess that doesn’t matter when evil’s in charge.

Lies are part of Trump’s cancer. Insisting that what we see with our own eyes isn’t real is also part of it. Evil is erasure—of people, of truth, of compassion, and of ideas that differ from what the State wants you to believe.

There is a vortex of evil people hovering around Trump, feeding on his power, and likely telling themselves that they are the heroes of this story. Evil rarely recognizes itself. A lack of self awareness is one of its superpowers.

When evil gets this large, it’s easy to feel helpless. I’m guilty of this. I’ve been following the news and doom scrolling with increasing alarm. Beyond that, I haven’t done much. But I’m trying to change that. I don’t have much of a platform. I’m a writer, a mother, a wife, and a white lady living in an American suburb. I’m a lot like Renee Nicole Good.

What happened to Renee Good was evil. What happened to the four immigrants who died in ICE detention centers last month is evil. What happened to Ismael Ayala‑Uribe, a former DACA recipient who died in ICE custody, is evil.

Spending hundreds of millions of dollars on a ballroom while people lose their health insurance is evil.

Cutting funding for pediatric cancer research (which is already grossly underfunded) is evil. There is so much more to list, but I’ll end it there, with an issue that’s deeply personal for me.

Trump and his administration’s inability to feel empathy, to see the world from the perspective of those suffering, to look at itself as anything other than a righteous government bringing prosperity and peace to America is, quite literally, letting the cancer spread.

What do we do now? For me, the only answer is resistance. I’ll write about it. I’ll condemn it. I’ll remember how my dying daughter heard Trump say that people like her don’t matter, except to better serve him, and I’ll set the fucking world on fire.

My apologies for publishing again so soon after my last piece, but something magical has happened, and I wanted to say thank you.

This past July, I received an email from Rachel, an ELA teacher in Nevada. She’d read an essay I’d written about my daughter’s imaginary world, Arkomo.

The essay was originally published in HuffPost in March 2023 and went viral. At least, viral for me. I received hundreds of emails about it and my editor at HuffPost confirmed that it was one of their most popular pieces that year, getting millions of views. The weekend it came out, I was getting texts from people I hadn’t spoken to in years saying they saw it as a top trending piece in various newsfeeds including Apple and Yahoo.

I republished the piece exactly 12 months later on Medium, and then here on Substack. I also read a version of the piece at a Story Slam in Woodstock, NY this same year. About 200 fellow writers and story lovers attended the event. I won first place, which was very nice (and unexpected), but that’s not why I read it to that room full of strangers.

My goal with writing about Arkomo, always, is to share this part of Ana with as many people as possible. She had a vivid inner world and Arkomo perfectly captured her imaginative spirit. I still occasionally get emails from people who find the essay and want me to know how much they love Ana’s imaginary world.

Rachel is a fellow bereaved parent who lost her 25-year-old son a few years ago. She left a comment when I posted the essay to Medium. “When I saw the picture of Ana’s Arkomo remnants, it made me want to take a picture, frame it giving credit to you, and invite my fifth grade students to imagine with her,” she’d said. “If I did something like that, got permission from my leadership, would you mind?”

I loved this idea, but Rachel ended up going far beyond this. She created “The Arkomo Project” for her 5th grade students. The idea was to have the kids look at photos of the toys that Ana had used to build her imaginary world and create some new stories for Arkomo, based on their own experience.

Rachel got permission from her school principal in early August and wrote, “I have received permission from my elementary principal to work alongside you with the 5th grade class to write stories in conjunction with your precious daughter's imaginary world. Are you still willing to send some better pictures”

I was indeed willing to send her better pictures, and I did. Here are a few she shared with her class.

Laying out the toys and photographing them was a sad process. It was also incredibly cathartic, particularly since my daughter Emily (now 21) helped me with this.

Emily was Ana’s partner in crime when it came to bringing Arkomo to life. She barely remembers the details now, but she spent many hours playing with these toys with Ana. She couldn’t bear looking at any of Ana’s things for years, so this was a big deal.

I uploaded about 15 photos and a couple of videos so the kids could see as many of the toys as possible. The flaw in this plan was that the photos are very sterile and empty. When Ana created Arkomo, she brought the town to life with blocks, LEGOs, and clay accessories she’d designed herself. The animals and people were then lovingly placed inside spaces that she’d carefully constructed for the Arkomoians—restaurants, parks, houses, etc.

But laying all the toys out on the table without Ana to bring them to life made Arkomo feel like a dead place, a hollow place, a museum of forgotten toys.

This didn’t stop Rachel’s class though. Ana’s old toys became a blank slate for them to bring Arkomo back to life.

I wasn’t supposed to get the projects until after Christmas. I received an email from Rachel yesterday, telling me to be on the lookout for them. She wrote, “On Saturday, I mailed you our finished Arkomo projects. The post office said our writings should arrive to you on Friday, December 26th.”

As soon as I got the email, I went to the mailbox. I just had a feeling that Arkomo was waiting for me in there. And, to my absolute disbelief, I was right.

I received the kids’ projects in the mail—nearly sixty of them. Each came with a hand-written letter that started with the sentence, Today, we learned about your daughter’s imaginary world…”

And, oh, my heart. Each project included a worksheet describing what the child imagined for Arkomo along with a drawing.

There’s a silly photo booth in Arkomo, a Great Forest, a train station called the Passage Express, a shape-shifting Christmas Tree, a dog reading nook, lots of hockey rinks and baseball fields. There’s a Viridian Garden drawn by Ella Rae (above). There are zoos, parks, and soccer fields. There is a church, several aquariums, and at least one water park.

The kids truly impressed and inspired me. I am blessed with their gift. My plan is to scan all the artwork and create a post that includes the art and the description provided by each child. There are so many, that I may end up making a video versus one long post. I’m not sure yet. I still need to go through them all carefully and thoughtfully over the next few weeks.

Kids, if you’re reading this, thank you. Ana would’ve loved each and every one of your additions to Arkomo. You brought her world to life and, as her mom, I couldn’t have asked for a better Christmas gift. Wishing you all joy, love, warmth, and peace as you celebrate the holidays with your families.

Thank you for being here. If you’re considering becoming a paid subscriber, now’s the time! I’m giving away an original piece of artwork to all paid subscribers and sweetening the deal with 30% off a paid subscription through the end of the year (and maybe even until spring).

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It’s been over 18 years since I popped my very first batch of holiday cookies into the oven. My daughter Ana was in second grade. It was the same year I threw myself into volunteering at her school.

I was the class parent that year and had to be present for the school’s fundraising events. They always needed food at these things — sweet and savory — the list was pinned to the classroom door. Baking seemed like a good way to log volunteer hours.

At the time, I’d never rolled out any cookie dough that didn’t come premade. But it was the holidays and my kids, ages 7 and 4, were at that sprinkles-and-frosting stage of childhood. With visions of Martha-Stewart-like perfection dancing in my head, I decided to bake cookies from scratch that year.

I didn’t have a holiday cookie recipe to draw from, but I did have the internet. I used a recipe that floated to the top of Google when I searched for “gingerbread cookies that don’t use gingerbread.”

I wanted to bake cookies that looked like traditional gingerbread, but didn’t have that pesky gingerbread flavor.

My recipe — and it is mine now, after years of tweaking, re-tweaking, and perfecting — uses butterscotch pudding mix, brown sugar, and cinnamon. These ingredients make the cookies look like gingerbread, but taste much better.

I’d called them “un-gingerbread cookies,” a joke that was totally lost on the second grade class. The cookies will forever be connected to my girls and their childhood. Baking them started out as a Christmas tradition, but they soon became my go-to food item for any and all occasions.

I can’t remember any particular batch of cookies. The specifics are lost in a blur of sticky dough, brown sugar, and frenzied activity.

There were pumpkins for Halloween, Santa hats, gingerbread people, and Christmas trees throughout December. There were stars, moons, and hearts for the months in between.

There was the year I made cookie-shaped karate people with yellow, blue, and black belts when my daughter Emily took her first belt test. And there was the time I made mustache cookies for a birthday party.

Every year I got better at making them. As my confidence grew, so did my boldness for tweaking the recipe. The cookies became my signature contribution to holiday meals, birthday parties, and potlucks.

Baking them dominated many Saturday mornings. The smell always drew the girls to the kitchen like Goldfinches to sunflowers. They would peer over my shoulder as I pulled a fresh batch from the oven, choose which sprinkles and shapes they wanted, and sneak too much raw dough from the mixer.

So visceral is the smell of cinnamon mixed with butterscotch pudding mix, that it pulls me down, down, down into the murkiest corners of grief, to a place where my daughter’s voice echoes through my maternal memory.

I can clearly visualize Ana through a fog of time and loss. She’s cutting stars and moons from rolled out dough as I smooth parchment paper over the cookie sheet. Now she is carefully spreading the glaze onto a heart or a star or a snowflake. Now she takes the first bite, eyes gleaming, a bit of bright glaze stuck to her chin.

The glaze is an entirely different adventure. I used to make butter frosting, smearing it onto the cookies as though I were decorating a cake. But glaze works best for sheet cookies — just three ingredients, thank-you-very-much (light corn syrup, confectioner’s sugar, and milk).

I used to use vanilla, but it turns the white glaze a dull yellow and that won’t do at all.

In any case, the cookies rarely survive long enough to be glazed. They’re good without frosting or glaze — dipped in milk, munched with coffee, or surreptitiously carried upstairs to bed to nibble while reading.

Glazing is sticky and messy and stressful, but oh so worth it. When I manage to get the cookies glazed, they glisten and shimmer. They become almost (but not quite) too pretty to eat. At least, that’s how it always plays out in my head. In reality, the glaze is where it all falls apart.

I used to get so uptight about the cookies looking perfect that I would yell at the girls when they piled blobs of red and green glaze onto my pristine un-gingerbread people.

“Watch what you’re doing,” I’d snap. “You’re ruining them.”

This memory hurts my heart. It drags me down to that desolate place of regret. I wish I could berate my younger self for not enjoying every single messy cookie, every misplaced sprinkle, every imperfect cookie. Tears and cookies. That’s what the holidays have become.

You don’t need to chill the cookies for an hour in the fridge like the original recipe says. You don’t need to roll them in flour, but you do need to add an extra half cup of flour when mixing. This makes them more bread-like and it’s why I call them Cinnamon Bread Cookies.

I smooth powdered sugar on the freshly made dough, sprinkling it directly onto the dining room table. I rub it onto the rolling pin, too. That’s what makes the cookies roll smooth, cut smooth, bake smooth.

I used the same cookie cutters for fifteen years, the same cookie sheets, and the same rolling pin which finally broke last year. “Some people prefer it like that,” my husband said, when I lamented that the rolling pin was unrollable, having finally succumbed to its final batch of cookies.

Both my girls had lost interest in helping me make the cookies even before Ana’s cancer became terminal and her appetite disappeared. At 12 and 15, they were mostly past the age of sprinkles and frosting.

Even so, I baked the cookies in the final season of Ana’s life, throughout October, November, and December. I baked them as she grew pale and wan. I kept baking them, even when they sat unglazed and untouched in the plastic tub that kept them fresh.

I am endlessly fixated on the timeline of Ana’s life — her first words, her final hug, her final Christmas.

But I don’t recall the last cookie she selected from the bin, her eyes bright with anticipation as she took one tiny, happy bite. I can’t remember what shape it was.

Fuck. Why I can’t remember?

This year, I haven’t made any cookies yet. I bought the ingredients the week of Thanksgiving, but I haven’t felt motivated to begin the familiar process of making them again. Maybe it’ll happen next week. I know exactly how it’ll go.

I’ll line up the ingredients on the counter and fall into the familiar cadence of mixing and measuring. The smells will bring back my girls’ childhood, all those years wrapped in cinnamon and sugar.

I might use the old cookie cutters or the gorgeous cookie presses I bought on Etsy a few years ago. They’re delightful. You only need to roll the dough into a ball, coat it with cooking oil, then press a pattern into it so that each cookie becomes a tiny work of art.

The cookies are the only recipe I can truly call mine, my invention, my ritual, my gift to the girls.

They are the manifestation of a dozen Decembers filled with powdered-sugar smiles and cinnamon-sprinkled hugs. They let me become a domestic goddess every year for a brief, glorious moment and remind me that of a time before cancer, when Ana was here, and my family was whole.

Jackie’s Extra Special Cinnamon Bread Cookies

Ingredients
(Makes bout 2 dozen 2 inch cookies or 3 dozen 1 inch cookies)

2 packages cook and serve butterscotch pudding mix (make sure it’s slow cook)
1 cup butter (2 sticks)
1 cup brown sugar
2 large eggs
3.5 cups all-purpose flour (can be substituted with gluten-free flour)
1 teaspoon baking soda
2–3 tablespoons ground cinnamon (I put lots of cinnamon in, but you don’t have to add this much if you don’t adore cinnamon the way I do)

Directions

1. In a medium bowl, cream together the dry butterscotch pudding mix, butter, and brown sugar until smooth. Stir in the egg. Combine the flour, baking soda, and cinnamon; stir into the pudding mixture. Cover, and chill dough until firm, about 1 hour (note: I rarely do this. If you add a bit more flour, the dough is firm enough to roll out immediately after mixing it).

2. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, grease baking sheets (or use parchment paper). On a floured board (I actually use confectioner’s sugar instead of flour), roll dough out to about 1/8 inch thickness and cut into shapes. Place cookies 1 inch apart on the prepared baking sheets.

3. Bake for 10 minutes, until cookies are golden at the edges. I often take the cooking sheet out of the oven after 10 minutes and leave cookies on the hot cookie sheets for 2 minutes.

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“I’m not a hoarder,” I say to my daughter Emily as we sink into our latest indulgence, watching another episode of Extreme Hoarders on YouTube. We’ve just finished decorating the Christmas tree, hanging lights in the window, and cleaning up the messes of the day. My house looks uncluttered, but cozy. I feel pleased with myself, and a bit uneasy.

I like to think that I’m not attached to my stuff, but when I declare that I wouldn’t put up a fight if a hoarding specialist told me to throw everything away, Emily says, “Even Ana’s things?”

No. Not Ana’s things. My daughter Ana died eight years ago. She was 15 and had accumulated the things that teenagers accumulate. I saved Ana’s schoolwork going back to kindergarten. I have most of her artwork, everything that I could possibly keep including doodles she drew in the margins of notebooks and school assignments. I have the tiny bowls and dishes she made in her 9th and 10th grade pottery classes.

I have clear plastic bins filled with the fruit of Christmases past: beloved stuffed animals, her old Nintendo DS with its cracked blue case, an ornate wooden box with a moon carved on its lid. I found weed and a pipe stashed inside it after she died.

I’m not a hoarder, but I do hoard. It’s not just things. I hoard moments, memories, old pain. This is the shrapnel of my grief.

I’m not a hoarder, but sometimes I want to buy more things. I seek  the brief triumph of ownership that makes my amygdala sing  and obscures my sorrow. Especially this time of year.

Emily and I visited Michaels twice already this season, both of us astonished at the breadth and scope of Christmas merchandise. We wandered the aisles trying to find a single object that inspired some kind of emotion. There was nothing among the cheap plastic and wooden decor — all of it encrusted with glitter — that moved either of us.

I have enough things, but I still bought some paint pens and two wooden ornaments that I plan to decorate.

We used to get a freshly cut tree from our local garden center every year. It was too hard to go back there after Ana died, so we spent a couple of years finding places to cut our own trees. This briefly became our new family tradition, but we were thwarted when the local farms ran out of trees during the pandemic. We had to make do with a fake tree that year. It was Emily’s tree, small and terrible. She’d talked me into buying it for her when she was around 11 and was obsessed with decorating her bedroom from top to bottom — everything Christmas.

The tree was in bad shape, but we put it on a table and decorated it. It wasn’t so terrible after all. The next year we bought a 7-foot, pre-lit fake tree in January. It was on sale, a good deal. Also, it was enormous.

This is the third year we’ve set it up. It’s a relief, this fake tree. It’s soulless, but lovely. There is no scent of pine, no mess, no stringing of lights. You plug it in and it glows. It is a gentle way to bring light into the house without conjuring up the perfect Christmases when the four of us went to the garden center to pick out a tree and argue and get hot food from the buffet at the opposite end of the store.

The fake tree spares us from going into the gilded aisles of Christmas-giddy retail establishments like garden centers and cut-your-own tree farms..

Sometimes Christmas feels too insistent, too needy, borderline hysterical. It has grown, like a cancer, to swallow up the entire last quarter of the year. It’s bleeding into summer. It’s crying out for us to keep looking at it, feeding it, worshipping it, turning our homes into altars where we hang string lights and stockings and garlands destined for landfills.

In Extreme Hoarders, there are collectors of Christmas things. They have multiple trees, thousands of glass ornaments, plush santas with jovial faces, all the trimmings. They can’t get to their kitchen. They pee in buckets and sleep in the basement.

They hold onto their stuff as though it’s the only thing anchoring them to life. They live in snow globes, stuck in the same winter scenes. My fake Christmas tree is like this. It looks the same year after year. I want to give it away. I want to get a tiny star and put it on the blooming Christmas cactus and call that my tree. I want us to be a family of four again, walking through rows and rows of freshly cut Christmas trees, looking for the perfect one.

We got the fake tree because it was easier, it was convenient, and it was an investment. I read somewhere that you need to use a fake tree for ten years before it actually saves you any money, which doesn’t make sense to me. Real Christmas trees are expensive. Even the small ones were about $80 a few years ago, but we only spent $179 on this tree and it’s in its third year. Now I have this damn tree forever.

If the hoarding specialists showed up today, I’d tell them to take the fucking tree and all the ornaments. They could take all the untouched dishes and pots and tupperware, the board games I don’t play, those old DVDs, most of my art supplies except a few favorites. They could take the bench my grandfather made too. They could take what few books remain, but leave me my Kindle, my dogs, my favorite sweatpants. Leave me Ana’s pottery and Emily’s paintings.

I’m not a hoarder, but it’s not that much of a stretch to picture myself trapped in a snow globe of stuff, clinging to the things and the memories that suffocate me. My best course of action is to let go of what I can, enjoy the space (and people) around me, and avoid another trip to Michaels, at least until they put all that Christmas clutter away.

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