TODAY

My country bombed Iran today. I woke at 7:30 for an appointment with pest control to keep all of the cockroaches, insects, and spiders out of my home. I sat at the dining room table, reading the news on my laptop while drinking coffee. A man named Adam with long curly hair under a ball cap and crooked teeth sprayed chemicals along the baseboard of each room, under cabinets, behind the piano and couch, as well as outside on the earth against the stone of my house, behind neatly landscaped bushes and flowers. He assured me that the insecticide wasn't harmful to my dog.

The bombing was described as a joint effort between my country and Israel. NPR reported that Trump encouraged innocent Iranians to "take over your government. It will be yours to take. This will probably be your only chance for generations."

I went and got my nails done. A gentle Vietnamese woman wrapped my fingertips in foil with soaked cotton balls to soften the layers of finely-milled powder in a color that was brownish purple like a faded bruise, that I have had painted every four weeks since my husband died. After she dipped and polished my nails, I washed my hands with a goopy peach soap that has granular beads to exfoliate and soften my skin. I paid $55 and gave a $10 tip for a job well done. After 21 months, I spoke up and asked her what her name was. Ouane.

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On social media, I found fervent posts against the war and I consider sharing a few. I wondered if it would be too much–If people would decide not to follow me. And if they didn’t follow me, how would they know what I believed and how important it was to consider a different viewpoint?

The dog bit and pulled at the curtains again, the pressure almost pulling the rod out of the wall. My friends Steve and Anna came over to help. The cats, squirrels, and other dogs outside the window just rile up my dog and he growls and lashes out, appearing crazed and vicious. On the other hand, when he meets people he quickly lies on his back, exposing his tender belly, waiting for scratches and pets. While Steve found a stud and secured new anchors and drilled screws into them, Anna and I discussed the books on my coffee table. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Hijab Butch Blues. There Are Rivers in the Sky. Essays After Eighty. This is Your Mind on Plants. And what books had we just read or were currently reading? Awake. A Truce That Is Not Peace.

My father was a handyman for single or widowed moms and grandmothers while he was retired. Then he suffered a brain injury and subsequent strokes. I visited him and brought hot chocolate. I told him I had brought the treat and he replied as always, You did?! As if it is a surprise every time. My sister raised him in his hospital bed and put the drink on his tray in front of him. While he took small sips, I told him that work had been hectic but I was getting a bonus. My son joined the tennis team at school. The dog was still crazy. Then my sister and I talked for an hour but I never brought up the news about Iran. We don’t usually talk about things like that.

I received an email from a Muslim political action group that I subscribe to, urging me to contact my representatives and implore them to immediately bring to the floor a resolution to end the war. I clicked a link and entered my name, address, and email, then signed an already-drafted letter to my members of congress. I had a moment when I considered what difference my letter made and then clicked ‘send.’ I was informed that I was among 94,019 fellow Americans to sign and send it. 

After dinner, I sat on the couch and drank more beer. Instead of watching the news, I watched a movie that was about a woman who had died and in her afterlife, she had to choose between her first husband (who had died in the Korean war) or her second husband (who she was married to for 56 years) who to spend eternity with. As a widow myself, I should have been amused and laughed because it was a comedy but instead it fell flat for me.

The Pentagon named the bombing “Operation Epic Fury.” While the aim was the offices of the Supreme Leader and his missile program, Iran's news reported the strikes also hit a girls school near a paramilitary base, killing at least 53 young female students and wounding dozens more.

My secret is that all winter I have let a tiny spider thrive in my kitchen above the counter behind my coffee maker. In the corner between the window and the wall, she has a little cobweb with a plump fly dangling among tiny gnats. I just don’t have the heart to wipe it all away.

JAMES EDWARD HERZING

 

Rest in the greatest peace and the love and fondness of so many friends and family, dear Jim.

May you experience the joy of bliss, reunited with Dan and EJ.

An Honest Photo

 

An honest photo.

Taken in July on the floor of our bedroom in my dad's empty house. The bedroom that was my mother's before me, before I painted the walls dark blue, where I had spent time putting her to bed, sitting with her, talking and massaging lotion onto her frail hands and freckled arms. Now her dresser is in my room in my new home and her jewelry is divided between Rachel and me. Her quilt is stored in a box, her framed photo of her parents in one of my albums, and those clear glass ducks I remember--a set of three, each bigger than the other like patroska dolls--probably donated.

I was alone in the house for the last time. Rather than feeling flooded by memories of her, or memories of growing up, I was overwhelmed by a lingering presence of Dan in the quiet space of each room. 

First there was the kitchen, where he probably spent most of his time! I looked around at the empty counters where he had made his delicious hummus from scratch in the food processor. I liked to take it to my work potlucks for everyone to enjoy. He made zucchini bread in the summer, using vegetables from his garden, stirring up the dough in the big, heavy kitchen aid mixer, making a mess all over the place with the flour. While it baked, the entire house would smell of the fresh loaf and cinnamon. He loved to make several and share them with neighbors. I looked where his bar was, where he crafted cocktails for all occasions...white russians for friends to sip while we sat in the living room listening to records, an aperol spritz or tequila sunrise for birthday parties, an old fashioned for sitting by the fire outside or for those fantasy drafts he researched and prepared for so intently. He would sit at the computer in the kitchen and anxiously await each choice, and groan when he was frustrated. Now I watch Raine do his drafts with his friends and smile at the thought of his father. The kitchen was where he pounded out the schnitzel, the sound echoing to the living room, and where he always yelled to Raine down the hall, "Fries are hot! Burger's not!" when Raine's favorite meal was ready.

After the kitchen, I viewed the living room where we sat every evening and talked, watched shows--he had so many favorites I can't even list them, but I'll name a few: The Bear. Slow Horses. Stranger Things. (We even made costumes one year for Halloween. He wore that hilarious bright red sweater with ). Food network competitions and those weird reality shows about people trying to smuggle drugs at airports and borders. Some of these, I eventually was able to continue to watch and others I just can't seem to have the courage. His favorite spot on the couch was well worn in and and often Stormy was next to him or at his feet. We listened to records with the player that was gifted at our wedding, or used one of his many playlists on Spotify on the TV. Zeppelin, The Sea and Cake, Over the Rhine, Jeffrey Martin, Iron and Wine, Van Morrison, Sufjan Stevens. So many come to mind...    

The walk-in closet in our bedroom did me in. I sobbed where his clothing used to be--his button down shirts, worn-out graphic tees, the comfy pajama pants, an assortment of funny socks like the ones with fish or pizza on them, and stocking caps and shoes like his Adidas slides--a style he had been wearing since even before we dated. Everything is now folded carefully and packed in bins I have stored at my new house. I don't think I will ever feel "ready" to let go of them.

In the blue bedroom I remembered reading together in bed, our quiet conversations, and intimate moments lying in bed, clinging to one another in passion or in sorrow for the day we would part. I remembered the final days when he would shower, barely able to stand, and I'd stay by him and then help dry him off, rubbing the towel over his long back, the slim muscles of his arms, down to his swollen feet and ankles. I'd help get him to the bed where I would fit his oxygen cannula on again. I had a hard time getting his socks on but we wouldn't give up. I'd slide a tshirt over his bowed head, over his sloping shoulders and across his sunken chest. We'd get his comfy pants on and his light gray sweater cardigan around his shoulders. I now wear it around the house and feel comforted by its weight and oversized length and smooth, soft knit.

Before I left, I took a photo of my hope; a smile through tears. I don't know what my hope is exactly but I have it. A hope for another day with friends and family, I suppose. A hope to carry him with me every moment and share his legacy of love, kindness, generosity, humor and positivity.

In my new house, he surrounds us with memories, too. Framed photos and trinkets are everywhere--especially snails. The large and colorful painting of the three of us that Dan Johnson made after Dan was diagnosed is above the fireplace. To the left, a stand full of books of poetry and records. There are framed photos of him leaping into the air with his trombone with First Grade Crush, and fishing for salmon in Oregon, and being out in nature as a young boy. The beautiful, green and blue stained glass box that holds his ashes sit atop the stand, with rocks from his spot in the Nenstucca river. In my bedroom, there is a cabinet that holds precious items like our wedding rings, his cologne, his lucky chemo trinkets, and a beard comb that still has wiry brown hair in it. I feel very Victorian in keeping it, as well as wearing a monogram necklace every day that holds some ashes.

I am trying to cook and still yell, "Fries are hot! Burger's not!" I have worn in and shaped my spot on the new couch with Stormy next to me or at my feet. Beautiful woods and landscaping frame our house--perfectly there is a peony bush for me (my favorite) and a Japanese maple for Dan...one of his. I am trying to figure out power tools again and all of the little things that Dan did that I tried not to take for granted but probably did: light bulbs, laundry, garbage, keeping house plants alive, weeding and mowing...All of which Raine is learning, too. This year I am decorating for holidays, something Dan loved that I did. Soon I will have a fire in the back yard, listen to the squirrels doing their work in the trees, and maybe catch a glimpse of deer. Dan was once told the deer was his spirit animal. I feel his spirit everywhere, to big and beautiful to be contained to houses, and I keep moving on.

GRADUATION

 

First Birthday

A photo he loves of himself - probably 1st grade

8th grade graduation!

On to high school...

 So proud of you, Raine.

DEAREST DON RAINE || ED. 5

This is a difficult letter. I feel it is time for me to write it.

We are doing it. We are living without your father. Together.

It is painful to write. To think about. I can only write in a stream of conscioussness to you because it is still hard to organize my thoughts while grieving. We have been grieving almost a year. Almost. In two weeks it will be daddy's birthday. And a month later, there we are. May 8th. A whole year. 

You are 13, about to be 14 this summer. It is 2025. The last time I wrote to you, it was 2020. 

Everything that I hoped for you in that letter has come to pass: you continued to giggle, to cuddle, you still trusted in us--and now, me, alone. I am astonished to see the values in you that we hoped for, and the ease with which you operate in the world with them, as if it is as natural as breathing. You are independent in mind and also tasks! (managing your schoolwork, doing your own laundry, helping with things like the dishwasher, shoveling snow, picking up dog poo... Lol. You especially help with Stormy, your wild dog we adopted during Covid.) 

You are so very kind and respectful. Your sense of humor is growing and taking shape. Your father is in you in the best ways! You share his genes of punctuality, caring for me, loving sports and excelling in school, and a zen-like, laid-back nature. You have spent the last several years growing and learning at school, enjoying basketball, and making more friends. You are much more social! It is fun to see. 

And the last two years you have especially watched and somehow had been processing the disease and break-down of your father's body, and his death. I remember key moments when it all struck you hard. For example, a year ago, we had tickets and plans for a trip to Europe for the summer, and I told you we had to cancel. 

You asked, Then when will we go?? 

I had to tell you with a lump in my throat that I didn't think your father would ever be able to travel again. He was in so much pain, he could hardly ride in a car for 15 minutes. We knew the cancer was terminal and would tell you soon, some evening soon, the three of us -and Stormy- hugging together on our bed. 

But before, I think in your own way in that moment talking about the trip, you were asking me if he was going to die. If it wasn't, my answer certainly confirmed the thought that was perhaps vaguely shifting around in your subconscious mind. You had cried yourself to sleep.

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And the moment. The moment I came to you at the dining room table where you were eating breakfast. I will always remember it but I want to write to you. The morning sun was already bright and streaming into the living room windows. It was a beautiful day. This is what I think I remember: I told you that you wouldn't be going to school. You asked Why and scooped more cereal into your mouth. I waited for you to swallow.

I tip-toed toward it. I think I reminded you of how sick Dan had been the last two days. How we had our time at the hospital alternating holding his hands, watching him sleep, and glancing around at family - Nana and Papa, Uncle Doug, Aunt Rachel -all of us who had tears we couldn't keep still with bursts of blush to our noses and cheeks.

Tip-toe. I explained we needed to go to the hospital today. I paused. 

There was only one thing to say and I had to just say it.

"Daddy died."

You wailed softly and began crying. 

I hugged you awkwardly across the space between our chairs. After a while, we let go and you hiccupped with tears. 

A long pause. 

Then you looked toward the piano, to all of the framed photos of the three of us together in Europe: You and your dad beaming in the summer heat in front of the Colosseum in Rome, he and I embracing in the pool at our villa in Chiancioano Terme - the smile of laughter on his face! You and him dressed in matching white linen button downs for the ceremony, standing side by side. My handsome boys. 

The photos of him ripped more out of you and you wailed again. You cried more. I held you.

Then you went to our bedroom and lay in our bed and cried. I gave you space. I sat at the table in torture at the gravity of your loss. Your loss of innocence. The gaping wound I had inflicted. 

I love you so much and I hope you felt that through the pain. I am so proud of you for sustaining what I had to tell you. Taking it in, and you have been living it, so strongly and wisely, as time has gone by.

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More soon, sweetie. This is all I can write today.

Love,

Mama

EIGHT MONTHS

I sobbed as we reached the final hours of 2024. I wasn't ready to leave the year in which Dan was alive.

I have these moments. Weeping and shaking with pain and longing. I always tried to imagine what it would feel like--to prepare myself, but you just don't know until you are in it. I gasp, "Babe!" calling out to him, to the silence.

I have things to write about and photos to share. Eight months of moment by moment living. I want to document my continued life and my grief. But it is too painful to focus my attention and type the words. 

I will try. Here are some memories.

I am now Stormy's bestie.

Summer sitting in the back yard at Gillman, where he sat. Stormy at my side. Listening to and watching the sparrows, doves, and the occasional cardinal, reminding me of my mom.

To be read.

The book I was mysteriously gifted in the mail. I have yet to read it because I haven't been able to find the time to sit still and read. I did read Letters of Note: Grief almost immediately, and it helped me reflect on my pain and disbelief in order to write his eulogy. 

I couldn't hang his stocking. It was too painful and felt awkward.

Not only the holidays and anniversaries--His absence was felt everywhere throughout the house all the time. There was no respite from that jarring reality. During the inital shock (a month or so?) it felt like he was on a trip and would be home any moment. It hurt immensely to realize over and over again this was not the case.

A sweet gift from Annalisa

Family and friends are a lifeline, though it is wispy and hard to see, it is strong like a spider thread. I have made so many phone calls and texts while crying, reaching out for them to fill the void in my heart, the emptiness in my stomach, the hollow challenge of being alone. They have each been present in some small way-- mail, gifts, and flowers, sharing their memories and moments of memorial, and coaxed me through the blizzard of my path. I long to be with them all the time, as if being in the same room with someone who also knew and loved Dan can bring me relief.

Kristi carries her coaster with her everywhere and sends me photos.

 

Tobin's LP featured a DAN FOREVER tribute.

Le Fleur delivers a bouquet from April and family on the 8th of every month. My mother also died on the 8th in December. 

8th grade night -- "The late Dan Herzing and Leah Herzing," announced for Raine's parents.

I don't know if I will ever write about the moment I had to tell Raine that his father died. It is not only my story to share. I do want to write more about how incredible Raine is and how his grief is healthy and not destructive. I hope it will always be that way. I am his guide as a grieving wife and I do my best to show Raine myself as a kindred spirit of Dan's---Positive, funny, kind, strong but also vulnerable and comfortable with that.

Tax season 2025.

Everything is a reminder of Dan's death and in each moment, I challenge myself to move through it, letting it be what it is no matter how painful, and remain standing after. My sorrow connects me to humanity and I try to honor it as I would any other person's.

 

TREE PLANTING

 

Tree planting in honor of Dan

Rees Farm, Grand Ridge, IL

September 28, 2024