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My husband Jeff is unwell. For weeks or months or years, I can’t remember; it seems he has always been exhausted, lethargic, snappish, unable to work much, unwilling to rally for family events. I know this isn’t true, it hasn’t always been forever, but sometimes it feels like it.

He gets a bad cold and it lasts all winter. When I can’t find him he is always asleep, dozing in a chair somewhere, head hanging, mouth agape, hands open by his sides, a pose of utter weariness. His symptoms are vague and intermittent. We suspect a food allergy, a lingering infection, a vitamin deficiency. The tasks he used to take upon himself are somehow now mine. The chores he used to do go undone, or done poorly, or halfway. I am tired of it. I secretly feel that he is malingering, settling comfortably into a world in which I do all the work. I work all day, come home and work some more. I am a beast of burden, pulling a dead weight up a lonely hill, earning all the money, doing almost all the labor of family and home and marriage. He doesn’t even seem to notice, let alone appreciate my efforts.

He is older than I am and tells me I am unsympathetic to his simple age-related fatigue. It is true; I am unsympathetic. I am bitchy, mean to him. Snide remarks spring unbidden to my lips, into his ears. I can’t unsay them. I am so tired and annoyed I don’t care. He doesn’t seem to care either. He just turns away and closes his eyes, unwilling to engage, eager for rest, for silence, for oblivion.

I feel he is in a small boat, untethered, drifting out into a still, foggy sea, ebbing away from me. He can’t or won’t make the effort to come back; I can’t reach him to pull him closer to me, back to the shore of our life.

Finally he has agreed to see a doctor. There has been blood work, an ultrasound, a tentative, unclear diagnosis of “lesions”. I look up “lesions” on the internet and see that there are dozens of possible causes, most of which are unremarkable. All we have to do now is get a clear diagnosis, figure out a plan, get some treatment, antibiotics or probiotics or vitamins or SOMETHING, and I will get my husband back. Maybe I will forgive him for being such a negligent slacker. Maybe he will forgive me for being such an unrelenting bitch.

I am with Jeff at the hospital. A CT scan is ordered to look more closely at what the ultrasound has revealed. The doctor has sent him to the ER because it is a fast way to get a CT scan instead of scheduling it weeks out. We have been here for many hours. We have spent the day paging idly through magazines in waiting rooms, more bored than concerned. He dozes on the gurney; I click through channels on the television.

It is getting late. Our daughter, a high school junior, is at some school thing, a play rehearsal or a meeting. She doesn’t know we are here. I want to call my mom and ask her to pick up the kid at school so I can stay with Jeff at the hospital until we get the results of the scan. He does not want to alarm our girl by changing her routine. (This is so Jeff! He does cherish routine, so much more than I do.)

I leave him alone in the small, uncomfortable curtained cubicle with the buzzing flickering florescent light. I pick up Anna at school, drive home with her, and wait. Jeff is alone when he gets the news.

It is after ten.
I am still waiting for his call.
Finally it comes.
I say “What’s up?”
He is oddly reticent.

On the way home he doesn’t want to discuss it. I think this means it is an simple fix, not worth a long discussion. What it really means is he wants to say it only once.

We drive home silently through quiet streets. Clutching the cold steering wheel with both hands, I glance sideways at him, trying to intuit his thoughts through sheer marital osmosis. His eyes shine in the dark car cocoon, inscrutable, staring straight ahead. The white streetlights, the green and red traffic lights reflect in his eyes, scroll over his big glasses. He never speaks until he has fully prepared what he wants to say. He has been my best friend for thirty years, my husband for nearly twenty; I am used to this. I know better than to push him: it annoys us both and it does not work.

At home, Anna is doing homework upstairs in her room. He calls her downstairs, gathers us in the family room. Anna and I are on the couch, Jeff is in the walnut rocking chair, facing us.

“Well, they found out what is wrong with me.”

I lean toward him, hands on my knees, smile encouragingly.
He speaks flatly, no expression in his voice or on his face.

“I have cancer.
Colon. Liver. Lungs.”

Anna starts to cry. Jeff starts to cry. I cover my gaping mouth with both hands like some parody of a woman receiving terrible news. Even my alter ego Worst Case Scenario Girl has not considered this outcome.

Anna immediately, instinctively, silently goes to her father in the rocking chair, climbs into his lap, curls up like a tiny kitten there even though she is already 5’10”. She is big; he is bigger. She nestles herself into a ball on his lap, rests her head on his wide flat chest. She draws her strong sturdy athlete’s legs up into his lap like a toddler would, but her long legs spill over the arms of the chair. Her bare feet graze the floor. His big hands hold her close. They rock together.

All three of us are crying. We cry for hours, we cry all night, we cry forever. It doesn’t help. It changes nothing. Finally we go to bed because what else is there to do. I suppose eventually we sleep.

Years later, I can’t remember my own phone number or what I came into the room for, but this night I remember vividly, all of it.

Jeff has been gone almost nine years now.
Our girl is a grown woman now.
He would be so proud of all she has done, who she has become.
(He knew it all along.)
I have taught myself how to be mostly happy now.
He would be proud of that, too.

I like to think we forgave each other for our human frailties, our imperfections.

This night is always right close by.
It never goes away.
It is all still present tense.

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For better or for worse, holidays do have a way of bringing back memories of holidays gone by, throwing those memories into stark relief. Joy and love hold hands with loss as we think of those moved on from here, whether they left long ago or yesterday.

A while back, my mother and I were discussing the birthday of her youngest granddaughter, my smallest niece. Neither one of us was quite sure of the date. Mom said, “Well, it’s no wonder I can’t remember the date. It was such an odd fall that year. Your father was hanging around…”

My father had been in declining health for many years. His grandchildren never knew him hale and healthy, if they knew him at all. In September of 2005, his last year, he had an alarming “episode” – an emergency room visit followed all too swiftly by a stunning recommendation for home hospice care. He was brought home from the hospital on a stretcher, carried into the house and placed onto a rented hospital bed in his Chinese red-painted study lined with jammed, sturdy built-in bookshelves. He curled up under a thin blanket, facing the wall. We all, himself included, prepared for him to die. Except he didn’t.

Some days later he sat up, blearily blinked at all his nurses and somber-faced well-wishers, and asked for a bacon sandwich on buttered white toast. A few days after that he was walking, talking, and advising us on all the usual subjects. The hundred foot plastic tube that tethered him to an oxygen generator did not limit his ability to make terrible puns, or gleefully tell dreadful shaggy-dog stories to the unsuspecting. These lifelong occupations of his agile mind became even more prevalent as his body atrophied.

My brother and his wife were expecting a baby to be born late that October. My mother recalls my dad wistfully wondering if he would be able to live long enough to know if the baby was a boy or a girl. The baby came, a sweet little girl with rosebud lips and a shock of dark hair.

My father decided that since he had already lived longer than anyone expected, he would like to continue to live long enough to meet this baby. Several weeks after the baby’s birth, the family gathered at my parents’ home for Thanksgiving. We had a lovely long weekend full of family, love, and laughter. Hospice be damned. Sunday afternoon came, and it was time to take that baby back home, hours away. Her grandfather held the new baby while her parents gathered up all the baby gear and loaded the car. Her grandfather was overheard to say, ever so softly, while chucking the infant under her tiny chin, looking deep into her dark eyes, “Goodbye, baby”.

Dad was tired from all the commotion. The days after Thanksgiving were hard for him. He rested all that week, a gentle slow decline. He barely gave me any advice at all, that week! He did tell me he was proud of me. I told him I was proud of him, too.

He died the following Tuesday. My father was hanging around. Then he wasn’t. Thanksgivings aren’t the same now. Says everyone, always. Our family has grown and shrunk, morphed, as families do. Members have been added and subtracted. Memories keep piling up, as they are wont to do.

The baby is pretty great, though. She only met her grandfather that one time. She is twelve now, a skilled gymnast. She spent Thanksgiving weekend with us again this year, quietly doing complicated flips in the living room, landing gently as a cat.

Dad, son of a Presbyterian minister, wrote a blessing for our Thanksgiving that last year. He recited it at the dinner table to all those assembled. While cleaning out his closet a few weeks after his death, we found the notes for it in his jacket pocket.
(Aaannd cleaning out the closet was abruptly over for that day.)

I don’t always say it out loud, but every year, near Thanksgiving, I always breathe it softly to myself, as many times as necessary.

“Fill our hearts with thankfulness;
fill our souls with grace.
Smile on our celebrations,
and then bless us on our way.”

Thanks for everything, Dad. Thanks for “hanging around”. Thanks for your legacy. Although you dearly loved your toys, your tools, you taught us that the best things in life aren’t things. Goodbye, baby.

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We work in the morning: hot heavy labor, crawling around in the dirt, pruning thorny overgrown shrubs. By noon the truck is overflowing with sticky tangled branches. We drive to the dump at the far edge of town to unload our leafy burden. We are sweaty, scratched, and filthy. Time to take a break and cool off.

Using our superb rationalization skills, as we tired, middle-aged, self-employed gardeners are wont to do, we decide a cooling swim is in order before our afternoon’s work. I suggest the covered bridge: Babb’s Bridge, a well known and much beloved swimming hole beneath a replica of a 19th century queen’s post truss bridge which spans the Presumpscot River. Intrepid explorer though she is, my friend has never been there. Might as well drive a mere two towns over for a quick refreshing dip at one of my favorite spots. It’ll be too cold to swim here in Maine soon enough.

We drive through the busy mill town out into countryside. The smooth, newly paved road winds around hillsides and grassy streams, past grazing cattle and junk vehicles, ancient homesteads and old graveyards; opens up into golden green farmland and russet hedgerows under billowing fair-weather clouds, impossibly white in the bluest possible sky.

Silently sparkling in bright sunshine, the water beckons, beguiles. On a summer weekend, this place is jumping with kids and dogs, families, paddlers, partiers. At midday, midweek in late September, we are alone here. The river runs quietly between its brown banks, smells of minerals.

We strip off our boots and work pants, dive off the rock ledge into the fresh, soft, cool green of our cherished Presumpscot River. The dark forest of evergreens and the bright yellow of birches starting to turn reflect in the still water farther upstream. The water is gin clear. Pebbles ripple, refract in sunlight ten feet down. Small fish poke about in the shadows of larger submerged boulders, unfazed by our presence above. We are held aloft as if in amber, our long legs and pale feet floating above the bottom we can clearly see but not reach.

We swim across, drift back, splash and float on our backs like otters, reveling in our good fortune to be here now. My friend paddles over to examine a mossy, mostly submerged fallen tree, home to turtles, frogs, and bright red stalks of Lobelia cardinalis, cardinal flower, a moisture-loving native plant, sign of a healthy river. I swim to the center of the bridge, grab onto a handy rope attached to the underside, hang suspended in the cool water. The lazy current takes me, unkinks my spine, loosens the knots in my shoulders and back, makes me slightly taller as it gently pulls me downstream.

All around us yellow leaves drift down to the water, land so gently that the surface tension holds; their cupped uppers remain dry as they are taken by the mid-stream current, swirl slowly in the eddies.

A sheriff drives through the wooden covered bridge, slows, notes that we are parked directly in front of the brand new, highly-insulting-to-the-locals NO PARKING sign. He passes by, disappears from view, turns around, comes back. Keeps going. Evidently the sight of two gray-haired ladies in sports bras and underpants assures him we are no threat to public safety. Good. I wasn’t looking forward to getting a ticket in a wet t-shirt and panties.

As we towel off, the breeze picks up, chills our wet skin, raises the hair on our arms. Dozens of enormous ripe acorns let loose from yonder oaks, fall all around us, pelt the still river with sharp retorts. If they hit us, it will hurt, a lot. Amazingly, they don’t. We’re somehow graced in a protective cone, under an invisible umbrella, acorns falling everywhere but here.

We drive back to town refreshed, ready for the afternoon. We are glad we came.

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So this happened:
We got GOOD news at an oncology appointment.
I know, right?
Who knew that was even a thing that could happen.

Not bitter cancer-widow me.

“I’m a widow; I don’t even believe in the future.” -C.M.S.

We didn’t even dare think about the idea of good news.
I sure didn’t anyway.
We were all pretty stunned by it, to be honest.

Mom, age 81, at diagnosis some months ago: “Well, I’ve had a good life.”
Doctor: “Hold up!”

Mom, yesterday, peering at the CT scan on the computer screen: “Is all that white stuff cancer?”
Doctor: “Nope. Those are your ribs. Nice try, though.”

I know, this too shall pass. Usually that’s a platitude people say about bad things, but it is also true of good things.

Me, in 2008, to my husband’s doctor: “Is this good or bad?”
Doctor: “It’s not good OR bad; it is what it is.”
Me: “Uh huh. [So it’s bad then.]”
It was.

Doctor, yesterday, seeing my sister and me fiercely holding hands and stealthily wiping away tears with the other hand: “I often do make people cry. But not for this reason.”

We drove away from there in a somewhat dazed but celebratory mood, in search of Mom’s request for a lunch of fried shrimp and rum punches. Last time we had only a few weeks between “you’re in remission” and “metastasis to spine”. I know how to read between the lines of oncology-speak, but I’ll still drink a toast to my mom any time she wants to.

Mom, whose picture is by the word ‘stoic’ in the dictionary: “I’m so sorry you couldn’t have this good news all those times you came here before.”
Me, silently, with watery eyes: “Jeez, Mom, I’m trying to drive here.”

We know we are so. damn. lucky.
We know this luck can’t hold.
We know that all we have is this very moment.
I know this in theory only, evidently, as I’ve put myself through seven circles of unnecessary hell in the last few days between latest scan and followup appointment, imagining only the worst. I act and talk all “stay present” and “it is what it is” and “oohhhmmmm” but in real life I’ve been imagining my mother dead and dying and all that will entail for the rest of us, too.

That day will come but not today.
We know what we have here is pure luck in action.
“Genes” says Mom, which to my mind is another way of saying “luck”.

We know it is not because “God is good” or God picked us.

My Christian friend J.T.E., a widow whose Texas home recently flooded, says “I don’t believe in a God who cherry-picks whom to help. I don’t believe in a God who gives us what we ask for, like Santa.”

We aren’t getting this news because Mom deserves it more, she has more work to do here, we prayed harder, we wanted it most. Lots of people who also deserved it, had more work to do here, prayed harder, and wanted it as much as we do are already dead. Nope. We just got lucky. For a minute. Just this very minute.

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I am a pretty happy person these days. Life is full and rich and mostly good, with certain troubling dark clouds on the horizon, like anyone has.

My Jeff has been gone from here coming up on eight years now. This fact no longer makes my breath catch in my throat, most of the time. But every once in a while, it still hits me, hard. I expect this will always be so. Often I can predict and make space to accommodate it: his birthday, his death day, our anniversary, the date of diagnosis, any given holiday, three-day weekends when other people have their families gathered round and I’m wandering around the yard alone.

Sometimes I have no clue what is about to blindside me, sitting at a light.

The child we made, Jeff’s baby who once could nestle her tiny head cupped in his big hand, her little feet resting in the crook of his elbow, is a full-grown woman now. She carries her own grief mostly silently, single-handed and stoic, so unlike her mother, but just as her father might have done. The girl with his cleft chin and clear green eyes, his dry wit and social conscience, is working on her second college degree, and a career she has wanted for a decade. She has her eyes on the prize, and I could not be more proud of her. It is my dearest wish that he could be here to see who she has become.

He isn’t.

There are those who tell me, “He is still with you.” I usually respond that while in your world that may indeed be true, in my world he has been NO HELP AT ALL moving our girl in and out of the dozen dorm rooms and apartments she has had since he had to go.

She recently moved with her accomplished young beau to a small town 30 minutes south of here. Last night I went to a gathering at their new house. We ate grilled meat and toasted marshmallows; we added wood to the fire and watched Jupiter dancing with the moon. Around midnight I drove home.

Well. That’s complicated. I drove to the house of my new beloved, where I happily stay nearly all the time now. My girl works in the same town where he has long lived. She drives from her new home to this town every day.

As we say in Maine, “You can’t get there from here.” There is no simple way to get from one town to the other.

My husband was a cab driver in his early life, long before I knew him. He was a native of our town, and took pride and pleasure at avoiding as many traffic lights as possible. “You’re not making money when you’re sitting at a light,” he was overly fond of saying. He knew all the best routes around town, and anywhere we went, he figured out the best, most efficient way to get from point A to point B. While he was teaching our baby to drive, he passed on this lore to her. It was one of his last legacies. I love to watch her avoiding all the traffic lights, her eyes-so-like-his cloaked behind fashionable big dark glasses, a casual elbow out the window as she expertly spins the wheel of the first car I bought without Jeff’s input.

Last night I drove back from our girl’s new house to the home of my sweetheart, ready to crawl into his warm and waiting bed. Before I drove off into the night, my daughter and I discussed the best way to get from her house to his.

I was tired, content. Happy. It had been such a pleasant evening, and I was driving back to my sweet. Thinking about how to get from A to B, sitting at a light.

Our baby girl makes her way in this world, even without her father’s instructions. I was so happy. Until all of a sudden, I wasn’t. Sitting at a light.

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“I’ve lived through worse than this, and you will, too.”

These ever-so-helpful words spilled from my mouth, spread like an awful stain.

“Oh, look! Platitudes!” came the instant, bitter retort.

Rightly enough, this brought me up short, made me consider what I had said. It cut me to the quick, but I knew I was wrong. Like most people who utter such beatific nonsense, I had meant to be helpful and supportive, but was, in fact, the exact opposite. In my head, my words made sense. Spoken aloud, echoing out in the air, they were only the hollow jabberings of the clueless.

I know better than this. I know all too well that I can be up to my ass in aphorisms and still be in the depths of despair. Even worse, I know that if someone throws me the kind of leaden life preserver I just tossed out so blithely, my unsolvable problem won’t be any closer to being fixed, and I’ll feel even more alone.

Just that morning I had written to a friend, “I’m so sorry for your loss and for this insult added to such injury. Love is love; pain is pain. Sometimes shutting up is the way to help a grieving friend the most. Not a platitude with “but” tacked onto the end of it.”

This is easier said than done, evidently, despite my best efforts and knowing better. By now everyone has seen this ring theory diagram.

Lovely and simple, it describes the obvious “comfort in, dump out” theory of helping. The problem lies in the center, with larger concentric rings of care around the issue at hand. Those in the inner rings ONLY receive care and love, never the added burden of helping those who try to help. Those in the outer rings may ONLY help, not make the problem worse. The job of those in the outer rings is to offer comfort and succor, or go the hell away. Not offer empty platitudes, not ask nosy questions, not require comforting themselves. You may not be able to make the situation better, much as you may desire, but you may not make it worse.

Link to original article “ How Not To Say The Wrong Thing” here: http://articles.latimes.com/2013/ap…

If I’m to divine any meaning at all from the everyday tragedies that have befallen me, I must live my life in such a way as to regret nothing of my behavior later. (Or as little as possible? Nobody’s perfect.) Some days all I can see is strife and pain everywhere I look. I must tweak the box; look through a different lens. I must “look for the helpers.” Look for the connections I know are here. I must show up for my life, show up for the people I love, even when it is sad or uncomfortable or scary. I must love with my eyes wide open, with all my heart. I must be kind. When I drop the ball on kindness, as we all do at times, I must pick it up and play on, redoubling my efforts. Sometimes we can offer the most empathy and support by merely showing up, by being willing to sit there in the darkness and mess, knowing there are problems all the love in the world simply cannot solve. Sometimes all we can do is live through it, one horrible breath at a time. Together.

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“I’m traveling in some vehicle.” I am on the road, listening to Joni Mitchell, of course – as one does, or is that just me? – every road trip a hejira.

We used to drive this oh-so-familiar road as a family of two, then three, then two. Now, long widowed, our child grown, mostly I drive it alone. “I am a woman of heart and mind, with time on her hands, no child to raise.”

This same road trip has split me wide open dozens of times, with its evocative mile markers, its big sky, impossible clouds, its certain slant of light across late-afternoon fields. “A red sun came rolling down a gray sky / and the frogs and dogs and night birds then started up singing sweet country lullabye.”

“So this is how I hide the hurt, as the road leads cursed and charmed.” I sing along to stay awake, and to keep the devils at bay, bellowing at top volume as a baby might “cry it out”. I have certainly seen more than my fair share of crying it out on this smooth stretch of 95 North, as “a prisoner of the fine white lines of the free, free way.”

These days, thank goodness, this road trip is more a three hour singing meditation than self-imposed vocal therapy session. Rarely does a song make me cry, these days. Not to say never. “I met a friend of spirit / He drank and womanized / And I sat before his sanity / I was holding back from crying.”

I’ve sung along to this music for over forty years. I can sing every song, every word, every note. Well, maybe not EVERY note. This IS our cherished, exalted contralto with the unmistakable falsetto, vibrato, and three-octave range, after all.

Each song is a time capsule, reminding me of an era, experience, job, or man. Some songs bring up more than one lover; some lovers bring up more than one song. Husband, partner, beloved, erstwhile-part-time-lover-full-time-friend, or unfulfilled fantasy: there’s a song, a verse, for each of them. “…and, you know, there may be more.”

In her live album Miles of Aisles, between songs Joni chuckles knowingly, self-deprecatingly: “Here, for you folks, are two new love songs, of course. One is very hopeful, and one is a kind of a portrait of a disappointment – my favorite theme.”
Present company excepted – “when I think of your kisses, my mind seesaws.”

Two friends recently discussed their list of long-lost dogs. One used a pithy line with which I concur: “I think I’ve had more dogs than men.”

“I’ll try to keep myself open up to you
That’s a promise that I made to love
When it was new
“Just like Jericho,” I said
“Let these walls come tumbling down”
I said it like I finally found the way
To keep the good feelings alive
I said it like it was something to strive for

I’ll try to keep myself open up to you
It gets easier and easier to do
Just like Jericho
Let these walls come tumbling down now
Let them fall right on the ground
Let all these dogs go running free
The wild and the gentle dogs
Kenneled in me”

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The nimble oven bird, the dignity of pears,
The simplicity of oars, the imperishable
Engines inside slim fir-seeds, all of these
Hint how much we long for the impermanent
To be permanent. We want the hermit wren
To keep her eggs even during the Storm;
We want eternal oceans. But we are perishable;
Friends, we are salty, impermanent kingdoms.

-Robert Bly, of course, who else could it be? This poem came up in my On This Day in years past Facebook feed today, because of course it did.

Today I am getting lighter and freer, and also getting my ass kicked.
Four strapping lads arrived at 9 am, filled a 20′ truck with furniture, moved it to and arranged it in my new house, ate lunch, filled the truck again with all manner of assorted junk, and have already left for the dump before 1:30. And I’m here alone crying over some random pieces of wood that were planned for something that never got built. Because cancer. Cancer put an end to all that.

That’s the down side. The upside is I never have to go into the barn again. That is beyond major. I’ve been cleaning out Jeff’s workshop for SEVEN YEARS, 20 minutes at a time, crying every. single. damn. time. for! years!
and these guys did it in two hours. And none of them shed even a single tear.

“We long for the impermanent
To be permanent.
…
We want eternal oceans. But we are perishable;
Friends, we are salty, impermanent kingdoms.”

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Before all this, I was a secular humanist. I believed we did our best here on Earth, died, and went back into the soil for new things to grow upon. Science!

Since my husband died, far too many bizarre, unexplainable things have happened for me to feel completely at ease in this belief anymore.

I KNOW. I know humans’ safety has long depended on perceiving patterns. Our brains are wired to try to make sense of unlikely combinations. Maybe our brains are active to a fault: we sometimes recognize patterns where none exist. I can’t reconcile my belief in scientific rigor with things I have seen, things my body knows that my mind hasn’t fully grasped, the synchronicity of certain events. The more I pay attention, the more I see. In human history, some of what used to be seen as magic, or witchcraft, can now be attributed to our deeper understanding of physics. I am willing to admit we don’t yet know everything.

~~

The morning Jeff died was July 17, 2009, the first hot and sunny day after a string of cold and damp. When the funeral home men arrived to take away his cooling body, Jeff’s sister Karen led me out to the garden, murmuring, “We don’t need to see this.”

In the garden, Jeff’s favorite daylily had chosen that moment to burst into blossom. We’d been noting its progress for days – the chartreuse alien pod rising, swelling, revealing yellow lips in their green sheath. This daylily is a Hemerocallis hybrid named ‘Big Bird’. Apropos that my enormously tall, loose-limbed, gangly husband chose that as his favorite flower. This particular plant was a gift I gave Jeff for a wedding anniversary, a house-warming present of sorts. He’d had ‘Big Bird’ growing at our old house, and we had left it behind when we moved. I bought the plant with my employee discount at the first gardening job I ever had – a first tentative step into what is now my new life, the one in which I am no longer married, and I joyfully make my living doing something I’d never imagined when he was here.

So this daylily had begun to bloom on July 17, 2009. Since then it has thrived: grown and spread. Always blooming in July. Usually on July 17. Last year the first blossom opened on July 16. I always make a point of noticing, appreciating it. I bend down to sniff the offered fragrant cup, breathe in the wafting scent of lemon.

July 16: I inhale the lemon scent, note again the clear yellow petals sun-setting into green throat. I admire its structure: the strong green scapes, graceful nodding leaves. The plant grows by the patio I built after he died, where I entertain with ambitious-menu’d cookouts and cocktails, lazy morning coffees, blankets laid down by the fire pit on starlit nights.

July 16: I breathe deep the fragrance of the flower and go about my day. At bedtime, I am restless. My sleep is terrible. When I awake on July 17, there is the smell of lemon in the bedroom. There are no lemons here.

On July 17 I always take the day off. I always want to be with Anna, our grown child, our only. Her father died the summer she was eighteen, midway between high school and college. When he was clearly dying, I mentioned the idea of her taking some time, perhaps deferring college. She replied, “What am I gonna do, sit around here and be sad?” She’s so much like her dad: artistic, practical, dependable, quiet. There’s not a lot of excess verbiage with this young lady. I often hear of her decisions only after she has independently made them, just as her father was wont to do.

Last summer she moved with her beau into his family’s lakefront camp for the season. The anniversary of her father’s death, July 17, would be the first day I’d visit her there, see her new home, jump with her into the lake. I bought our favorite picnic lunch and hit the road.

July 17: Sitting at a traffic light where the road turns north toward the lakes, I muse about this occasion. The lone parent drives to see the grown daughter’s new digs. She lives with the young man who looks at her the same way her father used to look at me. The look is a slightly bemused, faraway smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He appreciates her intelligence, her humor, her goofy brand of beauty; he can’t believe his good fortune to be with her. This look I recognize well.

I am waiting for my light to turn green. I am thinking of her future, our past, the day the daylily bloomed, all tumbling together in my mind. A pickup truck turns left at the light, crosses in front of me. My focus comes away from inward musing, back to the road. I see, in passing, its vanity license plate.

It reads DAYLILY.