Immediately I thought of a picture in a children’s book.

It’s a book I bought for Reese while he was at Duke University Hospital. I carry it in my little mobile library so I can read it to him again or to other children who are interested. I opened it this week looking for one particular illustration that came to mind during the conversation—a character climbing a staircase where only the first few steps are visible. The rest disappears upward.

The character climbs anyway.

Adventure carries her.

Faith carries her.

Curiosity carries her.

And the lesson is simple:

You must take the first few steps before you can see the next ones.

Before I even reached that page though, my eyes caught something else.

The inside cover.

I used to write a note to Reese inside each book I bought for him. I still do.

And there, dated May 18, 2020, I had written:

“To Reese, I saw this book title and immediately had to order it for you. It arrived today. Even though you are sleeping, I look forward to reading it to you this evening. I believe you will still hear it someway. I love you so much. I am with you always. I hope you enjoy it as much as the ‘What Do You Do With an Idea?’ book. Love, Momma.”

I cried.

Not because I forgot.

But because I realized how little time there was between writing those words and losing him. About 3 weeks…

I believe we were in the PICU the first time then.

I do remember reading to him in his room outside of PICU. He wasn’t moving much anymore, but as I turned the pages and showed him the pictures, he looked with only his eyes, following the pages.

At the time, I took it as hope.

I kept reading.

Whether his eyes were open or closed.

I talked to him.

I dreamed out loud for him.

For us.

I told him all the things we would still do.

And this particular book described so much of who Reese already was—full of ideas, possibility, imagination, movement.

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The morning air at Oak Hollow Lake carried just enough chill to make me reach for a light jacket instead of my running skirt this year.

But it was beautiful.

Blue skies stretched over Class in the Grass, and when I arrived, Cody, Papa Kesh, and Lola were already there. I had barely parked before Lola came over and wrapped me in a hug. It was so sweet. I was glad to see her. She helped me unload the car while I told her to go ahead and claim her bottle of bubbles before someone else did. I had brought several. They are always a favorite.

We had water balloons too, though because of the cool weather, we never filled them. That did not stop the water gun fights afterward.

Some things never change.

I ran the second drill session this year. It actually went better than the past years I’ve done it. Perhaps I’m getting better. The kids seemed to respond well to me, and honestly, it was fun. Really fun.

After the drills, everyone slowly wandered toward the pavilion where Papa Kesh and Mr. Deluca grilled burgers and hot dogs while children ran everywhere with water guns in hand.

And while I stood there watching them play, I could see Reese running among them in my mind’s eye.

He loved Class in the Grass.

He would run so fast, weaving through everyone with that water gun, laughing the entire time. So much energy. So much joy. I loved watching him interact with all the other children because to Reese, everyone was his friend.

Even now, I can still hear his voice.

His laughter.

I can still feel the way he used to stop me in my tracks just to give me a hug.

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Yesterday morning, I rode my bicycle to Tiger Rock Martial Arts to help with the Mommy & Me classes. There were three classes altogether, with the second one being for the adults. I took that class as a student, but I was also a sort of “pseudo-mom” for Cody. He asked if I could fill in for him, and I was glad to do it. It was nice to be asked.

The first class was for the Cubs, and there were a few children there without their mothers, so Kinley and I became the “pseudo-moms” for them too. We helped hold pads, encouraged kicks, and celebrated little victories. Everyone seemed to have such a good time.

By the third class, I got to join Jacob and Anna and their mom. I was a part of the Lopez clan again.

As it was, I didn’t have any children of my own there to join.

I never got to do a Mommy & Me class with my children when they were little. I wish I had. Now, I help out with them, and it is bittersweet. Overall, though, it helps fill the gap… the space in my heart… at least for a little while.

Michael came into town while I was at Tiger Rock and loaded my bicycle into his car so I wouldn’t have to pedal it back home. By then, my legs—and honestly everything else—were beginning to feel sore. I was thankful for the ride.

We stopped by Panera Bread for lunch, and while we were there, I ordered a dozen chocolate chip cookies to contribute to the fundraiser they were having for Brenner Children’s Hospital in honor of Children’s Mental Health Month. Reese was one of Brenner’s children. Buying those cookies felt important to me.

Saturday evening, we made pizza at home and watched television together followed by a few episodes of The Nanny. It had been such a long time since we watched The Nanny. I had forgotten just how funny it was.

This morning, for Mother’s Day, I slept in without an alarm clock.

Michael treated me to a chai tea and a steak biscuit with gravy from Biscuitville, and we sat out on the front porch while the scent of flowers drifted through the air. It was really nice. Peaceful. The kind of morning you wish you could place carefully into a keepsake box somewhere.

After I read the paper, we got ready to go to Barnes & Noble to browse around.

On the way there, Michael began talking about dreams he used to have involving Reese. Road trips. Inviting him to work someday. Letting him ride around on the golf carts. Just… brother things. The kinds of things brothers are supposed to grow into together over time.

Poor Michael.

He is missing out too, just in different ways than I am.

I think Reese was such a perfect companion for Michael, and Michael was the same for Reese. Like two puzzle pieces made exactly for one another. I used to sit and watch the two of them interact, fascinated by their bond. As their mother, that may be one of the biggest things I miss these days.

I can hardly bear it at times.

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Last night, I brought a few of Reese’s favorite things to Sprouts for a Parents’ Night Out—his birthday, held in the way I could hold it. I put a fundraising twist on it to help raise money for Visionaries of the Year for Blood Cancer United. We only have two weeks left to make a difference.

Reese’s pretzel peanut butter bites.
Sloth cookies with Reese-green icing.

A variety of his favorite snacks such as Goldfish, Scooby snacks, and fruit flavored tootsie rolls.

I brought bean bag toss games, bubbles, and sidewalk chalk.

For the first hour, we stayed outside.

The sky was a soft blue, brushed with wispy white clouds that seemed to drift without purpose. The kind of sky you don’t question—you just accept it as a good day.

I watched the children play.

I tossed a few bean bags.
Blew a few bubbles.

And quietly, without announcement, I felt it.

Something missing.

Someone.

There was a time when I stood in moments like that and watched my own children—fully, joyfully present. I loved watching Reese. He had a way about him… a natural pull. Other children didn’t just play near him—they joined him. Followed him. Became part of whatever world he had imagined in that moment.

It was something to witness.

And last night, standing there among the laughter and movement, I felt the space where he should have been.

Then, suddenly—

“Rainbow!”

Carolyn’s voice.

I looked up, almost confused.

A rainbow?
There hadn’t been rain.
Not even a hint of it.

And yet, there it was.

Not stretched across the sky, not bold or arched in the way we expect—but a small, quiet patch of color resting gently at the edge of a wispy cloud.

I just stood there.

Looking up.

Still.

Trying to understand what I was seeing… and at the same time, not needing to understand it at all.

It felt… separate.
Like I had stepped just slightly outside of everything else.

Carolyn tried to take a picture. I don’t know if she got it.

But I don’t think it was there for the camera…

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I may have mentioned before about the red maple leaves.

But some stories don’t end.
They continue… quietly, like roots beneath the soil.

A couple of weeks ago, I went out for a bicycle ride and found myself once again beneath those same trees—the three sunrise maples that have stood for years in front of the large Tudor home at the end of Edgedale Dr.

As I looked at the ground I noticed so many seeds, and I wondered what if I tried to plant one. Would it actually grow? So, I picked up a few of those fallen seeds.

I don’t know exactly what stirred it. How is it after all this time, now, on this day I considered such an idea?
I only know how I loved those trees for a very long time.

Years ago, I used to run past them with Reese tucked into the baby jogger.

In the fall, I would stop and gather the most beautiful red leaves that had fallen to the ground—deep, rich, perfect red—and place them carefully into the basket behind his seat. When we got home, we would lay them out together, face up, in a clear glass dish for our table.

Reese learned early what I meant when I said I loved a certain kind of red.

And after that…
anytime he saw a red leaf—anywhere, any season—he would bring it to me.

He loved to give me things.

The feeling was mutual.

Some parts of this story are still unfolding…
in ways I hold a little closer….

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April 15, 2026 — 6:27 AM

Almost 35 minutes ago began Reese’s birthday.

16 years ago.

He was born at 5:55 AM.
So little. Beautiful. Precious.
And sleepy from the all-night journey it took him to get here.

This morning, I found myself remembering not only the time of his birth…
but the time he went back to heaven, 10 years later.

There is something about “5’s” and early mornings….

And somewhere in all of this…
I realized something I didn’t understand back then.

When we were in the hospital, I used to think this was all a dream.
I was ready to get back to life with some kind of normalcy.
Back to routine. Back to what we knew.

But now I see it differently.

That was the dream.

That life. That normalcy.
The ordinary days I longed to return to…
they were never ordinary at all.

And now that dream has passed.

So here I am…
learning, slowly and honestly,
how to live in a new way.

Still his mom.
Still carrying him.
Still marking time…

Only differently.

especially in the quiet hours
when the world is just waking up.

—

Some parts of this are shared more quietly…

We were at Duke.

It was around 5:30 AM when the doctor came in and said it was almost time.

I realized the nasal cannula had fallen from his nostrils.
I gently placed them back so he could get the oxygen better.

That small act…
it gave us twelve more hours.

Twelve more hours until his last breath at 5:26 PM.
(5:24 PM by my watch.)

He was born on April 15, 2010 at 5:55 AM.
We were told at about 5:30 AM that it was almost time.
And by 5:26 PM on June 10, 2020…
Reese earned his wings.

You know, his doctor actually missed his birth.
Another doctor was pulled in from the hallway.

But when Reese was leaving…
there was a whole team there.

Interesting.

—

I miss you, Reese… soooo much.
I hope you have the most beautiful heavenly birthday.

It was St. Patrick’s Day.

Yesterday, I baked a large batch of shamrock cookies to take to Sprouts for Reese’s Story Time. St. Patrick’s Day was always one of Reese’s favorite holidays—he loved all the green. It feels only right to carry that forward.

When my firstborn, Tricia, was little, I began a tradition of cooking a full Irish dinner each year. I would roast a pork loin, make colcannon, bake an Irish farmhouse loaf, roll Irish potato candy, and finish it all with an Irish chocolate cake—the kind with Coca-Cola in the icing. So rich. So good. Those were full-table days… laughter, plates passing, everyone gathered in.

I miss those days.

Last year, I didn’t make the dinner. I was the only one home.
This year was the same—no kids here, Rusty out of town.

But yesterday, I decided to do something.

I pulled out the best sugar cookie recipe I’ve ever made and baked shamrock cookies instead. I mixed the icing just right and tinted it yellow and green until it became Reese’s green. That color always finds its way back to me.

Of course, Gary came along too—wearing that funny t-shirt I found for Reese on one of his last St. Patrick’s Days.
“Irish I had a slice of pizza,” it says, with a slice of pizza that has shamrock-shaped pepperoni toppings.
It was perfect then. It’s perfect now.

Reese loved pizza.
And on St. Patrick’s Day, he would wear his green t-shirt with a sequined green tie he once picked out at the fabric store. He was so proud of that tie. So bright. So him.
He was so cute.

At Sprouts, I shared with the children what we used to do in our home. I read them the St. Patrick script I always read before our dinner, just like I did with my own children. Then I read ’Twas the Night Before St. Patrick’s Day.

Afterward, I handed each child a little Reese’s candy and one shamrock cookie.

I think they enjoyed it.
I hope they did.

I like to believe I’m creating something for them—small moments they’ll tuck away and remember later. The way I do. The way I remember all those St. Patrick’s Days with Reese.

Last night, on my way home from class, I made a stop.

I went to Reese.

I brought him a shamrock cookie and read ’Twas the Night Before St. Patrick’s Day to him there. I brushed off his marker and placed the little cookie beside his picture.

And while I read, his windchimes sounded.

The whole time.

I like to imagine that was him—letting me know he liked it. Letting me know he was listening. Still part of the story.

It was freezing last night, so I didn’t stay long.
But I’m so glad I went.

I just miss him so.

Today is Saturday.
Valentine’s Day.

My sixth one without Reese.

Sixth!

Without him helping me.
Without him to eat cake top.
Without him licking the beater clean from the batter.
Without hugging my smallest valentine and handing him a little box of chocolates like it was treasure.

Six years.

This morning I found myself remembering the very last Valentine’s Day Reese helped me.
It was February 2019. That winter/spring was his first go-around with cancer.
He was in his “Einstein hair” stage — that wild, brilliant, gravity-defying look. He wore it like nobody’s business. He handled everything like a boss.

He wanted to be part of everything more than ever.

Valentine’s Day in our house has always meant the same meal:

• Heart-shaped meatloaf

• Dinner rolls

• Green beans

• Mashed potatoes

• And a heart-shaped strawberry cake

It was my gift to the family. I did it with love and attention. That year, Reese asked if he could help frost the cake.

Of course he could.

I pulled a dining room chair up to the counter so he could stand tall enough to reach. He was still so small. So short. So cute with that crazy Grinch hairdo.

He held the Pampered Chef decorator in both hands, tongue sticking out just slightly in concentration, frosting that cake with such serious precision. He had so much fun.

And I had even more fun watching him.

I remember taking pictures. Lots of them. I am so glad I was in the habit of taking so many. Freezing those moments in time.

Today, it’s all I have left.

This morning I wondered why I still make the Valentine’s meal.

For tradition?
For who?

All the kids are gone.
Michael is out of town.
The girls don’t come around.
Reese is in heaven.

So why do I still do it?

As I stood in the quiet this morning, I realized something.

Perhaps, now, I do it for a different reason all together. I do it for remembrance.

When I shape that meatloaf into a heart…
When I roll the dough…
When I mix the strawberry cake batter…

I am transported back to our little apartment kitchen.
The chair beside me.
Reese standing on it.
Carefully squeezing frosting with such determination.

Sweet in more ways than one.

Precious beyond words.

So today, at noon, I will leave the studio.
I will enter our kitchen.
With Reese’s picture to the wall, I will mix.
I will bake.
I will decorate.

And perhaps… I will even pull the chair over again.

I miss you, Reese.

I still need your help. ❤️

This morning I woke up to near-audible words of Reese saying,
“Love you, Momma.”

The sound was intertwined with wind chimes.
I couldn’t tell if I was really hearing them
or if they were only in my mind.

We have wind chimes on the front porch.
And wind chimes at Reese’s.

These days, every time I hear them, I feel like it’s Reese talking to me.

It’s not that Reese has been reduced to wind chimes.
It’s just that now—
this is what I hear.
This is what I get to hear instead.

By the time I made it upstairs to my dressing room,
the tears had already found their way to my eyes.

I looked in the mirror
and saw a still–broken-hearted mother looking back at me.

The tears are bigger these days.

Sometimes I wonder if I somehow carry Reese’s alligator tears now.
His were the biggest—
rolling down his freckled cheeks whenever he cried.

That thought brings me back to his last tears.

He was in the PICU.
Eyes closed.
Hooked to monitors.
Sometimes sleeping.
Sometimes fighting the pain.

And we could tell the difference.

During those last days, he would sweat on his face,
so I kept a cool, wet washcloth nearby
to wipe his forehead.

Every so often,
a single tear would slip from his left eye.

Just one.

It was as if he was crying
without the energy to fully cry—
that one tear as evidence.

I cried for him instead.

I didn’t understand what was taking so long.
Why he had to endure pain
before the healing could begin.
Before I would have him fully back.

Though he gained his wings
and went to Heaven,
I still carry the question.

Only now,
I carry it alone.

Yesterday, Rusty and I did get out.
We wanted to take some hot chocolate to Reese.

As I made his cup, I was pulled back to a day in the fall of 2019, when he woke early at Brenner’s. He wanted to share hot chocolate with me, so I made two cups with marshmallows on top and a candy cane to stir with. I took a selfie of the two of us. I’m so glad I did—it’s the last picture I have of us like that.

We got halfway to Reese’s when I realized I’d left his hot chocolate on the kitchen counter. So we made a donut right there in the intersection—no traffic, only snow—and turned back.

Backing out of the driveway, we got stuck. There was thick ice beneath the snow where Rusty stopped to shift from reverse to forward. A mistake. Thankfully, a neighbor saw and came over to help push while I gently gave it gas. I was nervous. I kept thinking, I don’t want to be on 48 Hours. Silly, but real.

When we finally made it to Reese’s, he was completely covered in snow and ice. We dug down to his marker, found his face, and made him a tiny snowman. The snow was very powdery, but we managed.

I set Reese’s hot chocolate in the fluffy snow where I usually lay his favorite snacks. After building the little snowman, our hands were hurting from the freezing cold—we had no gloves. We hadn’t known we were going to make a snowman.

It felt like the least we could do.

Reese loved the snow. He loved snowball fights, making snow angels, building snowmen. I loved watching him, his older brother and sister enjoy the snow with Truffles. Then making hot chocolate afterward so they could warm up. Oh, the joys of motherhood. I loved it!

When I poured his hot chocolate where I’d set it, it quickly melted a hole in the seven inches of snow. It was kind of cool to watch. Rusty cleared a little more snow on the other side of the snowman to help keep Reese’s face from being covered by the flurried wind.

As I worried about him accidentally knocking the snowman over, the snowman’s head and middle fell off. The snow was too fluffy—hard to stick. So I sprinkled what was left of Reese’s hot chocolate on the bottom snowball to attach the middle, and did the same to set the head.

Too bad we didn’t know we were making one. I could have brought buttons for eyes. Fabric for a tiny scarf. Reese would have liked that.

The snow reminds me of another time—during his re-diagnosis at Brenner’s. Winter was settling in. We hadn’t fully unpacked his room yet for the next round of chemo. That day, Reese wasn’t himself. Maybe upset. Maybe frustrated. Maybe just tired of being back in the hospital.

I reached into a bag I had and took a chance. I threw a faux snowball at him.

He didn’t know I had them. I’d picked them up at Hobby Lobby just a couple of days before. He looked at me, surprised—unsure whether to be mad or excited. I stood there waiting, nervous. I sure didn’t want to upset him further.

Then he burst out laughing and threw it back.

I kept pulling snowballs from the bag, firing them across the room at him. From then on—nurses, beware. It was on.

The distraction not only worked, but created a wonderful memory, at least for me. Today.

Oh, how I wish I could go back to that day.

But for today, maybe it will have to be enough to go back and clothe his snowman.

In the dream, he was trying to say a word—one he clearly understood, but couldn’t quite remember how to pronounce. I leaned toward him and offered it softly, almost instinctively.

“Capacitor?”

He repeated it back to me perfectly, just as I said it.

There was another little boy there too, a few years older. He looked at me with wide eyes and open surprise, as if wondering how on earth Reese knew anything about capacitors. I don’t remember saying it out loud, but in my mind I was smiling, thinking of how Reese fell in love with Back to the Future—how he learned all about the flux capacitor and the DeLorean.

Reese didn’t just watch that movie.
He built it.

Out of a cardboard box.
All of my Saran Wrap.
A generous amount of tape.

He added a flux capacitor in the back, a drink holder in the front, and a LEGO light on the inside of the roof. It was… honestly, pretty incredible. His water bottle still sits in that drink holder today.

A few months ago, when the DeLorean was on the floor, Truffles became very interested in it. She sniffed around it—inside it—lingering in a way that stopped Rusty and me in our tracks. Reese had been gone for a few years by then, and yet there she was, investigating as if he were still there. As if something of him lingered.

We just watched. Quiet. Curious. Wondering.

This morning, thinking back on the dream, something clicked.

Reese could understand a thing—deeply—without remembering its name.
He could do something without being able to pronounce it.
And he would do it anyway.

That kind of bravery feels rare.

Most people don’t try unless they’re sure.
Unless they know the right word.
Unless they’re confident they won’t look foolish.

Not Reese.

He went for it. Every time.
No fear—only curiosity.

And somehow, he was never wrong.

Maybe that’s the reward for bravery like that.
For simply going for it.

I was in church this past Sunday.

Two rows ahead of me sat a young couple with a baby. The mother rocked her, swaying slightly while standing, the way mothers do without thinking—an instinct older than words. At one point she began to sing, her eyes fixed on the baby in her arms. The baby looked back at her, that little bald head tilted upward, completely absorbed.

Seeing them opened something in me.

I used to do that—with all my children.

When Tricia was little, I had a book called I Love You Forever. Throughout it ran the same refrain:
I love you forever,
I like you for always.
As long as I’m living,
my baby you’ll be.

I read it to her over and over. Years later, she sent the book back to me—this time with an audio recording of her own voice reading it aloud. A full circle I didn’t know I would treasure so deeply.

When Savannah was a baby, I even made up a song for her—to the tune of Amazing Grace—just to soothe her when she was fussy. Singing has always been how I loved them when words weren’t enough.

Years later still, I found myself sitting in a rocking chair the nurses so graciously placed in Reese’s room at Duke.

I held him in my lap.

For the first time in a very long while, he was relaxed.

His spirit had already left, though there was still some warmth in his body. Just some.

The nurses quietly changed the sheets on his bed while I sat there, his little bald head resting against my heart. And I sang to him.

I love you forever,
I like you for always.
As long as I’m living,
my baby you’ll be.

I sang it over, and over, and over again.

Low. Close to his ear.

I know the nurses heard me, though they never let on.

That was the very last time I ever got to sing to him.

The last time I held him like a baby.
The last time I sat in a rocking chair with him in my arms.
The last time I loved him that way.

He used to love that.

And now, here I was—doing it for the final time.

Oh, how I miss those moments.

Watching that baby girl look up at her mother, listening to her sing in church, carried me straight back there—sixty-seven months ago—without warning, without mercy, and without apology.

Some memories don’t fade.
They wait.

And when they return, they remind you:
as long as I’m living,
my baby still is.

Sometimes it became a friendly argument—back and forth, smiling, stubborn—until we arrived at the only possible conclusion:
we were both the best.
It always ended that way.
With laughter.
And a big hug.

Even at Duke, when Reese lost his words, we didn’t lose that.
I began teaching him sign language, and we still argued—hands moving now instead of voices—about who was the best. The same conclusion, every time.

I remember the very last one.
Through his hospital room window.
When I had to leave so Rusty could come in. Pandemic times.
One more exchange. One more knowing look.
One more we’re both the best.

Oh, how I miss those days of arguing about it.

I had another dream last night about Reese. He told me again.

He took the form of a baby so I could hold him. We were busy—doing things, going places, having a big time—but in the middle of it all as I held him on my hip, he looked straight at me and said, “You’re the best.”

I melted.
I told him how it had been so long since I’d heard those words. I just wrapped him up in my arms and held him like I used to.

In that moment, it was only the two of us. Everything else faded away. Nothing else in the world mattered.
He was the world. (He still is.)

Now, awake, I wonder:
Were all the years we had but a dream themselves?
Those sweet memories—so vivid, so full—what separates them from the best of dreams?

And is there really a difference
between sweet memories

and the most beautiful dreams we’re allowed to have? Those dreams, the memories,...it’s all I have left. Well, accept for the signs. I still see those. Visits from Reese himself.

My sweet, sweet Reese.
Oh, how I miss you so.

I’m sitting at the front of the ship on the River Rhein, the German shoreline just outside the window, a Christmas tree glowing quietly beside me. It’s peaceful here—soft, early, almost sacred. And yet inside me, there is that familiar ache of counting days I never wanted to count.

I can still hear his voice.
I can still feel the weight of his little-boy hand inside mine.
That part of memory has never faded, even as the calendar pages do.

I keep imagining him here with me—his own tiny table, his sketchbook open, a nibble of breakfast disappearing while he draws whatever idea comes to him first. I can nearly see him sitting across from the Christmas tree, delighted by every sparkle and every new sight outside the window.

Instead, where he should be sitting is the ship’s survey I need to return. A quiet reminder of the space he once filled so effortlessly.

I have postcards tucked beside me—notes I plan to send to his friends. Small ways of keeping his name moving through the world, the way he moved so easily through mine.

Grief is strange on mornings like this.
The river glides on as if carrying centuries of other people’s stories,
and here I am, adding mine—
a story stitched through with love, loss, and a boy who changed my life forever in the short time he was here.

I miss him with a depth that language still struggles to hold.
But I write anyway.
Because remembering him—
saying his name, honoring his days, carrying his story—
is how I keep him close while the world keeps insistently moving on.

My birthday always comes with its own shadows now.

August 26th, the day six years ago we found out Reese’s leukemia had returned. August 28th, another spinal tap. And then my birthday weekend, holding the weight of what we knew was coming—going back to Brenner’s the following week to start chemo all over again.

That Saturday, August 31st, there was a painting class at Hobby Lobby. It was $35, and money was tight, but I told myself it would be my little birthday thing. I showed up early—rare for me—and sat there waiting for class to start. That’s when it hit me: Reese had blossomed so much that spring with the Arts for Life program at Brenner’s. Maybe he’d like this, too.

But that meant another $35. I hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. You can’t put a price on the priceless. And oh, how priceless it turned out to be.

I called home and asked Reese if he wanted to take the class with me. He said yes—his full, excited yes. I told Rusty to hurry; class was about to start. And just in time, Reese slid into the seat beside me.

The canvas they handed us was white. The first step was to paint it black. From there, the project was birch trees in the fall—white trunks reaching up against the dark background, bright leaves scattered like confetti. Autumn was ours—our favorite. The leaves, the crisp air, the promise of new beginnings every September.

Reese started with pure excitement, then frustration when it didn’t look the way he hoped, and then quiet pride when he stepped back and saw what he’d created. I can still see that moment, that shift, the way he learned what it was to trust the process.

That painting went with him to Brenner’s to brighten his room. Later, it became my muse for Threads Challenge 2023. I even had it printed on satin for the lining of my coat—a coat that went on to win Most Holistic Interpretation and be featured in Threads magazine. Now, his painting hangs in our living room, right next to mine.

But this morning, I woke up back in that classroom. I wanted a rerun. Not to change a single thing—just to be there again, side by side, painting birch trees and loving the leaves that fall. The pain is nearly paralyzing. I miss him so much.

And yet, today, I will rise. I will go to my studio and work on my Whispers from the Garden dress for High Point Fashion Night Out next month. This piece will evolve into The Garden He Wanted to Grow for next year’s Art Gala—a living tribute, a story stitched into every seam.

This is how I keep walking through the ache: by making beauty out of love, by turning grief into garments that will outlive me, by building the legacy Reese deserves.

You know, I still can’t help but feel so devastated. I can’t believe he’s gone. I miss him so much. I’ve done so much sewing and creating since he left, (I suppose to turn my focus), but I feel like a shell of who I once was. I’m feeling physical pain along with my grievous heart. In spite of this, I keep dreaming. I keep having the ideas. I’ve even been able to get excited about them. I’m not there for too long before grief reminds me of it’s presence. It truly is a very difficult balance. I must remember I can accept and perhaps even welcome grief; but I mustn’t let it take the wheel.

If someone you love is carrying something heavy, feel free to pass this along. Grief feels less lonely when it is seen.

When Reese was a baby and toddler, I used to run with him in the baby jogger. We lived on the other side of Westchester then, and I would cross over to run through the neighborhood here. I loved those runs. Sometimes I would imagine that one day we would live on this side.

There was one house I always noticed—three sunrise maple trees standing at the curb, dropping the most brilliant red leaves each fall. I would stop and pick them up, bringing them home to arrange in a clear glass bowl for our dining table. Reese grew to know my love of red. He began to bring me red leaves too, his little boy hands proudly holding out nature’s gifts.

Now, all these years later, we do live on this side of Westchester. Reese even has a room in this house, though he never got to see it. These days, I start finding the first handful of red leaves as early as July. By the time autumn settles in, I walk past that same house with the three maples and gather every red leaf that calls to me. Then I carry them to Reese. His place has become the most colorful red spot in the cemetery.

Just last week, during the Tiger Rock community clean-up, I found my first red leaves of the season—two of them, resting quietly near the end of our work. The last time I joined a clean-up was years ago, with Reese. He loved being helpful, running around with that bright energy only a child can have. Doing it without him this time made me ache a little, but finding those two red leaves felt like a small, sacred moment—as if he had shown up in his own way to help again.

The leaves remind me of him—how he lives on in every shade of red, running still through my veins.

“The falling leaves drift by my window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your face, those blue eyes
The little boy hands I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song
But I miss of all my little Reese

When the leaves start to fall”

If someone you know is carrying something heavy, feel free to pass this along. Grief feels less lonely when it is seen.

We were trying to step back into normal life again—our new normal. No more chemo. No more hospital stays. No more missing out on everything. Just back to life, back to school, back to fall days. That was the plan: get in, have his blood taken and checked, and then move on with our day.

At first, everything went as planned. Reese was checked in, blood drawn, and we were told the doctor would be in shortly. Just a few minutes—fifteen at most. But the minutes stretched. Fifteen. Thirty. An hour. Two hours. What was going on?

Finally, after eleven o’clock, Dr. Russell walked in. Without looking at us, only at Reese, he said, “I have some bad news.” For a moment, I thought he was setting up a joke. Then he said it: “It’s back.”

I didn’t understand. All I could get out was, “What? What?” The tears came, though I held them in as best I could—for Reese’s sake. My sweet boy climbed down off the bed and put his arm around me, comforting me. Always so tenderhearted. Always looking after me.

Then he said, with the innocence and optimism of a nine-year-old who didn’t fully grasp the battle ahead:
“We get to have studio days again, Momma.”

He remembered how I would set up a sewing corner in his hospital room, stitching while staying by his side. He turned even that hard truth into something bright, just to cheer me up.

I had insisted earlier that morning that he go to school after the appointment. Rusty had been encouraging him to miss, but I wanted him back in the swing of life. After the doctor’s words, Reese looked at me and asked, “Do I still have to go to school today?”

With the wind knocked out of me, all I could say was, “No, Reese. You don’t have to go today. It’s okay.”

Looking back, I realize why we were waiting for so long that day. The doctor had to recheck to be sure the results of his blood work were correct. Then I think he needed time to figure out how to say what he needed to say. There is no good way to say it. “It’s back” was all he could come up with.

Oh, how I miss my sweet, sweet Reese.

If someone you love is carrying something heavy, feel free to pass this along. Grief feels less lonely when it is seen.

A 99-Year-Old, a Roller Rink, and False Teeth in the Vault

This past weekend I went to visit Kitty and Grandpa. He’s a WWII veteran and 99 years old now, still as sharp and quick-witted as ever. Grandpa has lived a remarkable life—owning several roller rinks around Little Rock as well as a string of pawn shops. He’s one of those men whose stories come alive the moment he starts to talk.

On Saturday I took a private lesson at Mr. Dring’s school, working toward my preparation for 4th degree black belt testing next March. Kitty and Grandpa came along to watch. As it turns out, Mr. Dring himself used to skate at Grandpa’s roller rink when he was just a kid. Small world moments like that always make me smile—it felt like generations and paths circling back together.

But the highlight of the weekend had to be one of Grandpa’s pawn shop stories. Years ago, a lady came in needing $100 and, for collateral, handed over her false teeth. About a week later she came back to reclaim them. A couple of weeks after that, a young man walked in with those exact same false teeth and asked for a $100 loan of his own. Grandpa still has those teeth, carefully kept in his vault as part of his “inventory.”

It has been several years since the false teeth incident, and Grandpa has since passed down all of his pawn shops to one of his sons. My husband couldn’t resist chiming in—joking about someone using a pacemaker for collateral. Ridiculous and hilarious, but with Grandpa’s stories, you never know how close to truth the joke might actually land.

I don’t mind adding that a couple of decades ago, Grandpa also took an art class and created a beautiful pastel replica of a Norman Rockwell painting. Kitty, his wife, couldn’t believe how good it was. But, much to her dismay, it’s the only one he did and ever wanted to do. So, it is nicely framed in there dining room. For me, looking at it, I imagine the little boy in it is Reese. It feels so endearing.

There’s a richness in sitting with someone who has nearly a century’s worth of living stored up inside. The roller rinks, the pawn shop counters, the laughter, and the false teeth in the vault—pieces of a life that remind me how colorful and unexpected our legacies can be.

August 18, 2025

When Reese was a baby and toddler, I used to run with him in the baby jogger. We lived on the other side of Westchester then, and I would cross over to run through the neighborhood here. I loved those runs. Sometimes I would imagine that one day we would live on this side.

There was one house I always noticed—three sunrise maple trees standing at the curb, dropping the most brilliant red leaves each fall. I would stop and pick them up, bringing them home to arrange in a clear glass bowl for our dining table. Reese grew to know my love of red. He began to bring me red leaves too, his little boy hands proudly holding out nature’s gifts.

Now, all these years later, we do live on this side of Westchester. Reese even has a room in this house, though he never got to see it. These days, I start finding the first handful of red leaves as early as July. By the time autumn settles in, I run or ride by bike past that same house with the three maples and gather every red leaf that calls to me. Then I carry them to Reese. His place has become the most colorful red spot in the cemetery.

This year, I found my first red leaves of the season in an unexpected place—the Tiger Rock community clean-up. The last time I did one of those clean-ups was with Reese, several years ago now. He loved being helpful. I felt a bit sad doing it without him, but at the end of our work I looked down and saw two bright red leaves waiting for me. It felt like a little gift, a reminder that he was still there with me.

The leaves remind me of him—how he lives on in every shade of red, running still through my veins.

“The falling leaves drift by my window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your face, your blue eyes
The little boy hands I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I’ll hear Old Winter’s song.

But I miss you my little Reese,

When Autumn leaves start to fall.

(The tune to this credit to Nat King Cole.)

If someone you love is carrying something heavy, feel free to pass this along. Grief feels less lonely when it is seen.