This month, I honor my late niece with an epistolary musing. Amy Elisabeth Wadley died in April of last year.
The snows of last year melted, Amy. The snows of Mt. Baker draining into the North Fork Nooksack and the Middle Fork Nooksack rivers. Their sweet waters emptied into sea, drawing in the salmon, running for home and drawing in the pilots of fishing boats. The fishing boats seining their catches.
Following your Celebration of Life, your dahlias, who survived their dormancy in the dark, cool cellar of your parents’ home, went into your mother’s garden. She replaced her usual rows of potatoes, chilies, tomatillos, and tomatoes with the tubers you’ve gifted her. Under her loving hands, and the summer sun, they bloomed as vibrant and patterned as the fabric of our memories of you. Red, pink, and peach anemone and cactus. Yellow, orange, and lilac fimbriata and mignon. Magenta, purple, and white peony, pincushions, pompoms, and waterlily. Your mother filled vases and rooms with their colors and shapes—petals spiky or spoon-smooth. She gave bouquets to friends and family. She gave handfuls to strangers walking along the street. The color of you all summer, everywhere.
Once, on a summer day, a young woman walking her big black dog and pushing a stroller yelled to your dad, “Hey, is that Baxter?” The woman had known you in nursing school, around the time you got Baxter—your big black dog—from the animal shelter. His tail wagging, he trotted over to greet the other dog. Rest assured, Amy: Baxter’s in good hands. Your dad’s passionate about including him on his daily walks at the nature reserve and playing catch with him in the front garden. The mailman greets Baxter with a grin and a treat.
Around the town where your parents live, the ginkgos yellowed, the maples reddened, and fallen leaves smoked the wet sidewalks. Your dahlias went back into cool, dry storage, your mom packing them with care and tears. Snow began to fall in the mountains.
Snow. Your old friend. Your enemy.
November, your birthday month, came and went. Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas, New Years, and Easter—they all came and went, obstacles to our hearts’ grieving.
Snow. Falling in the mountains. Your old friend. Your enemy.
Soon, the pack covering Mount Baker will be melting again, awakening the circling salmon. And your dahlias, in this month of April, lie dormant still, in the cool and earthly dark of your parents’ cellar, waiting to be cocooned in the warming, living earth, waiting to awaken, waiting to thrust themselves into sunlight. To grow. To blossom again. And again. And again. And again.
Fare you well my honey*—we miss you, Amy.
Just recently, another dear soul has passed. The best man at the wedding of Amy’s parents and sharing a birthdate with her; Mark loved her like a father. A good man. And like Amy, a giver. All the birds that were singing have flown.* He is missed.
* “Brokedown Palace,” by Grateful Dead
If there’s someone you lost recently, you’re most welcome to honor them in the comments. Write a brief letter to share.
Meredith Writes 