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We had protests and an election, and it went our way this time. The poor are poorer, the rich are complaining about their cancelled parties and trips. The government isn’t helping, but hurting.

Now it stretches from August to November, with fires everywhere, competing for the fighters to save forests and towns and resources. Fire season used to be a few weeks, with one big fire every few years. Two of our best friends lost their home, and countless others. We ate every meal on our patio, until the fires filled our skies and lungs with smoke. Sunflowers, literally, showed us the cycle of life, and helped us get used to being on our own, without Bill to show us what’s next. Friends sent us photos of their “Bill flowers” and ours grew in our yard. As the fields around town began to bloom, we visited in the morning and at sunset. Our quaranteam broke up so Momo could see other kids, and I could have Mom to our home, in the backyard, twice a week. I also didn’t know how painful it would be to watch other families gather, without the need for 100% compliance, as their circles opened and ours became tighter.

It would only be a few months, so we were all good. I didn’t know how much I would miss my daughters and their partners, and how delightful our family Zoom calls could be. My silly collages were (and are) a placeholder for the words that didn’t seem to flow anymore.

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I made art-collages and paper weaving, using my time to learn how to tear properly and keep track of my glue sticks. We made a book instead, and ordered sunflower seeds, packaged with a Mary Oliver poem, and mailed them to our family and friends. We didn’t gather for Dad’s memorial service, of course. We drank wine and I called her Juliet and we made the best of it, even when we cried. I couldn’t see Mom who was alone for the first time in 65 years, for a month-and for the next two, only from a lawn chair beneath her balcony. It was sweet and solitary and I loved not caring about appointments or grooming or socializing. Momo, our pretend grandchild, bounced between houses. Stefan, my other husband, set up an office in our guest room and showed up most evenings for whiskey with Steve. Anna, my sister wife, made sourdough bread and juice for us every morning. We bought face masks, and chose to “pod” with our neighbors. On March 18, shelter-in-place orders were delivered. I didn’t know that the first case in our county was an acquaintance, the mother of one of Alex’s schoolmates. We read about the Corona Virus, but no one seemed worried. The cicadas were loud, the beer was cold, and the views were phenomenal. Ten days later, just past sunrise, on a boat in Doubtful Sound surrounded by dolphins and waterfalls and the gentlest mist, I understood that I would simply miss my dad, every single day for the rest of my life.Īt the end of our trip, at Punga Cove, we hiked in the ferns and my confidence returned. I learned that the best part of that word is the hard K at the end, that the middle is just mush with no place to land. I skipped the song and yelled my favorite curse word. On one of the lines we were asked to sing a song all the way down. It was messy and ugly and embarrassing, with no clean resolution. I began to cry and didn’t stop until I finished all six rides, including the world’s steepest line.

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I didn’t know that my grief would spew and sputter on a mountain in Queenstown, on a zip line launch platform, as I was told to “just step off.” I had been stepping off into the unknown for months, and I had nothing left. She told me I was just starting my journey. At the start of our trip, I told my cousin Marci, who was already a member of the lost parent club, that I had processed my grief and I was good. But I knew Steve had been looking forward to his bike tour, I’d love visiting my cousin, that Dad loved NZ, and nature heals. We were scheduled for a three-week trip to New Zealand and I was a reluctant traveler. Or that I’d be crying every day for the next sixty. I had no idea there would be laughter, an hour later, as the enthusiastically flamboyant nurse in the red jumpsuit worked like the dickens to get Dad’s wedding rings off.

That it would be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but not the worst. Or that holding his hand on that last crisp, cloudy day would be one of the most profound experiences of my life. I didn’t know it would be twelve days in. I knew my dad wasn’t coming home, and he was probably going to die.

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