Dear Mom, I made it. I don't know how I did it without you, but I did. You said I would love it here in Kentucky, and I do now, but man it was difficult in the beginning. What made it even worse is that I knew you were the only one who would understand what I was going through, and I couldn't call you. I couldn't cry to you about the culture shock – about how much slower life moves down here, how no one is afraid of conversation, how everything will get done ‘when it gets done', about the one-lane hilly holler roads that gave me panic attacks every time I drove them, about the thick accents and phrases I didn't understand. I knew if I could just talk to you, you'd explain everything and make me feel so much better. But I couldn't…I had to get through it on my own. And for a while, I was mad at God for taking you when He did – when I needed you more than I've ever needed you. But then spring came, and oh my gosh – I can't tell you how many times I wanted to send you a picture of a new wildflower I'd never seen before, or a bird – you would have loved the birds down here. And the sunsets. And the gentle rains. And the way the fog settles in between the mountains in the evenings and rises as mist in the early mornings. How was it possible that such a beautiful place existed, and so many people had never experienced it? I spent so many summer evenings on my porch, just admiring nature, and wondering how a place that was so breathtakingly gorgeous could be so poverty-stricken and desperate. I knew that if anyone would understand how I felt, it was you…and I wished I could call you. There have been so many times I've thought about all the times I didn't call you…the weeks and sometimes even months we went without talking because of different issues we were struggling with…and I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the irony of it – because I probably would have called you almost every day, if not multiple times a day, this past year. There were so many struggles, so many weird moments, so many new experiences that warranted a phone call – like how the Walmart here is Black Friday every Friday, and there's such a thing as “Holler Dollar” and “holler dogs,” and the people here eat this cheese on their sandwiches that I think would taste better as a dip, and there's a native fruit call a Paw Paw that tastes like a cross between a kiwi and a banana, and kangaroo jerky is a real thing, and one shot of moonshine goes straight to your head, and almost everyone owns a side-by-side, and there are giant crickets here and five different kinds of hornets and more slugs than I've ever seen in my life, and one inch of snow is enough to shut down the town, and people will get mad if you insult their Double Kwik pizza rolls, and bluegrass music is wonderful, and did you know I turned 40? How weird is that? I'll never forget sitting on your bed, crying, thinking you'd be upset when I told you we were moving to Kentucky. You were sick, and I was terrified to leave you. But you smiled and hugged me and told me it was okay – you told me I was going to love it. And again, when I stopped at the hospital on our way out of town, you held me tight and told me not to cry, and told me again I was going to love it. Well mom, I want you to know – I do. It has by far and away been the craziest, most difficult year of my life, and it probably would have been a little easier if I'd been able to call you, but I made it. I'm grateful for who I've become. It's ironic - I feel closer to you, and more like you than I ever did before. I know your spirit was here cheering me on. Thank you for supporting my move here. I'm excited to see what this next year brings. I love you and miss you. Happy New Year, mom.

It's been under two months since I lost you. I miss you, Nanny. As I laid beside your hospital bed, I longed to hold your hand for eternity. To feel your warmth for what could've been, and was the last time. I'll forever remember the summertime sleepovers at your house. Walking around the bay all day and then returning home to a boiling house since you always willed to have the wood stove on. You're the first person I truly lost. And it's only hitting me now that you're gone. I wish I could have spent more time with you. It kills me that I hadn't. You had the memory of an Elephant. Although you had 14 children, 16 grandchildren, and 6 great-grandchildren. You somehow remembered when everyone's birthday was. You were so caring and considerate. When I was in the hospital struggling with my mental health, you would always call my Mom and ask how I was doing. And you continued to do so even after I was discharged. I mourn your kind heart and dry sense of humor. I still laugh when I recount the way you would look at my ripped jeans in shock and then almost faint when I told you how much I paid for them. I'm already dreading Christmas. The family tradition of gathering at your house will not feel the same. You won't be at the table in your seat scratching lottery tickets or in your room reading the bible. But I'd like to think your spirit will be embracing us all. Bringing back the Holiday cheer that once surrounded us all. The last days of your life in the hospital were hard. You were too weak to talk or even open your eyes. Everyone huddling around you in the small private room. Trying to hold out hope that your health might improve. It sadly did not. On February 25th, 2022. Heaven gained a beautiful angel. My grandmother, Beatrice Hawkins, passed away at the striking age of 93 years old. She lived an amazing life and drifted off in peace and happiness. I'd like to think she is dancing with my Grandfather, Aunt and Uncles at this very moment. Watching over everyone in bliss.

I didn't cry when she got sick, or at the funeral, or at the graveyard. I didn't even cry when my mother brushed the hair out of my still dry eyes and held me as the undertakers wheeled away her coffin. Mom never said it, but she hadn't approved of our relationship from the first moment I brought Elise home. It wasn't that she didn't like Elise. What was there not to like in smart sweet Elise? Mom had tried to understand us, I knew that. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The next morning, I awoke alone. The sun moved shadows across our bedroom while I just stared off the edge of my side of the bed. I was waiting for something, the smell of her coffee I think, but nothing came to snap me out of this fog. Was I supposed to be doing something? Breakfast, I guessed, though I didn't feel hungry; I didn't feel much of anything to be honest. I went into our pantry anyways and saw row upon row of canned sauces, fruits, and preserves she had prepared for the long winter ahead. The shelves were filled with Elise's preserves and her light curled handwriting. I picked up a Mason jar and stared through it without seeing the diamond shapes etched into the glass or feeling the paper label as my fingertips absently traced the word ‘strawberries' over and over. I didn't see the bags of flour and sugar or the boxes of her favorite cereal crowded together on the mint green shelves in the cramped little pantry. I was back in July, sweating as I hauled in another tray of fresh picked strawberries. She would have picked them herself like every other year if she had still had the strength. I smiled and laughed when I thought she was looking and stole glances at the scarf wrapped around her head when I thought she didn't see. I opened my mouth to ask her again why she was doing all of this and wouldn't she rather fly away somewhere to lounge on a beach? I closed my mouth without a word, we'd fought about it enough and her answer was always the same. “I don't want some crazy trip. That's not me. I just want every day I can have with you,” she would say. I knew she just wanted her life- a normal long life- and it was the only thing I couldn't give her. I hefted the jar turning it over and over in my hand, puzzled by the weight and feel of it like some alien artifact. The jar ate away the cold numbness wrapped around me and I couldn't push away the itching burning feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. I clenched my fist around the jar as if it and it alone had taken my wife from me. I couldn't stand the sight of the wretched thing, it brought anger to a boil suddenly spilling over onto my carefully sealed up resignation. I flung the jar with all my might at the pantry wall, red exploding over a bag of chocolate chips, syrup and glass and strawberries falling to the floor. A low guttural animal yell erupted as red as the strawberries and I hardly noticed it was me spewing anguish and rage at the rows of silent glass jars until my throat grew sore. I slid to the floor completely boneless without anger to hold me up, rocking back and forth holding my head with both hands as if it might come loose without a firm grip. My whole being shook, tears making cold splotches on my pajamas as I sobbed there on the floor of our pantry. I felt like my insides had all been scooped out leaving me hollow and empty, blankly staring at a bag of dried beans as if they could anchor me to the world again. The smell of strawberries touched me tugging me gently back, not to the world around me but further back to a moment with her. The bright sweet fruit conjured up that birthday cake she had made filled with our first strawberry harvest, and how we sang and kissed that night joyfully celebrating life. I looked up at all her jars: the tomato sauce recipe we'd spent years perfecting, the peaches from her mother's tree, the BlackBerry jam she hated but still labored over knowing it was my favorite. I saw her there, all her work and planning and love, every moment of our lives together laid aside here giving me a million tiny roads back to my life with her, if only for a moment- a taste. My vision blurred again as tears flowed, gently now, onto my cheeks. I nodded my head imagining her beside me, gazing at me with that secretive smile. I whispered to her, and to myself, “I see what you did, my clever wife. Thank you.”