THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS MOVING ON

 

Denver || 9.5.25

I have tried. Not with great intention, but rather aimlessly. It might be enough for some of you to say Yes, there is such a thing. You are doing it. Look at you go.

It doesn't feel like it, really, when I think of him constantly. When I wake, when I see the prisms around the house, or spot the birds in flight moving together in sweeping shapes in the sky, when I hear a song that I swear is meant for me from him, feeling a lazy wind through the trees... I try to imagine what it would be like if he was there in these things and signaling mystically to me. I'm distracted by this all day long every day.

I bear this loss like I did the weight of his cancer. Only that burden came with relief (as devastating as it was at the same time--the pressure did release and then I was left with nothing). This weight of loss with his death just doesn't come with relief. It will never be complete. If "free" is a goal, I don't think I can expect a day in the future other than my own moment of leaving this world when I will feel free.

In the meantime, I keep showing up. I do the things. I try. If you want to call that moving on, I guess you can. For me it is pure fight vs. flight and survival of the fittest and sometimes my mind isn't the most strong, fast, or wise. Again, I don't know what I'm doing, so let us just say there is no such thing.

For my own sanity, though, let's talk about what I have done while drifting aimlessly. For my own memory and to leave to Raine. What all of this is like.

Last September, I traveled alone for the first time. 

First I went to Denver. While Hattie was at work, I was alone in her apartment. The loneliness even in a different place made me cry. It almost hurt more than at home--which was already a messy composition of what felt like very raw pain and exasperation every night sitting on the couch and staring around the room, looking for Dan. 

He would have loved that I ventured out on my own finally and wandered through a farmer's market. I felt keenly aware of my singleness as I watched pairs of people and families bustling through the park. I had coffee and a killer breakfast sandwich, ooohed and ahhhed at booths full of plants, vegetables, jams, spirits, and art. Then I sat for a long time watching everyone.

I visited my favorite bookstore, quietly approving books as I peered at stacks of them on display tables or those lined up on the shelves with paper notes of recommendations by staff. I intuited my selection and later documented them with joy. My travel tote was heavier than I wanted, but it felt good. Books console me with their possibility for what I can feel and learn. 

And yet, Where was he for me to call and tell him about Andrea, and their books of poetry, and how they had passed, too, leaving their partner, but they left us all so many holy poems to just read and breathe in? And about the way I wrinkled my nose at the beautiful mushrooms or renewed my vow to take care of house plants, or.... or! The taste of the handmade mochi filled with black sesame cream, a layer of red velvet cake, and a dusting of black sesame powder? How adventurous was I? 

I COULD IMAGINE HIM BEAMING.

Saturday night we went to Red Rocks. I got to see Brandi again, this time with Hattie. I would have tried to describe the moon to him. How my heart dropped to the bottom of my toes at her cover of Everybody Hurts. I would have told him about the new songs she did. Her new album was coming out soon and he would never hear it.. It was always disorienting when I would realize that---because Dan always had the newest music, in almost every genre, dialed up and playing on his earbuds every morning during his walks. 

Did he see us pass the racoon eating popcorn as we left? Did he hear Hattie and I laugh the whole way back to Denver on the funny little school bus with our free beers and hearts so full of love and light? 

Milwaukee || 9.27.25

Then, back in the Midwest, I took a road trip alone. To Milwaukee. To a wedding.

I stayed at a fancy hotel and I tried to look fancy. I hadn't paid much attention to myself in the last year... No need to have chin hairs plucked or hair color died, a small waist, or painted toe nails for doctor's offices and hospital hallways. I also didn't feel like Dan needed me to be anything other than what I was typically--which I considered somewhat attractive? But I felt overweight and always looked tired. I was sure I looked cute giggling at his dance moves, though. Now I had to look at myself straight on and do my best to feel confident without my biggest cheerleader there to kiss me.

To say I cried is an understatement. I cried silently for an entire Catholic wedding, in the beautiful Old Saint Mary Church, with beautiful Molly walking down the aisle to her beautiful groom Tom. I cried with the stand-ups and sit-downs, the thoughts for those who aren't with us, and the peace-be-with-you and also-with-you each person gave to the other, and all the elements that go with the whole sacramental liturgy. I just cried.

Memories of our wedding, of our first date which was at a wedding, of our second date which was at a wedding, well, yes, many wedding memories to make me cry. But also, just the absent seat next to me in the pew, and his missing hand for me to hold. It didn't take much.

At the reception, I gave it my all. I braved the dance floor with In Da Club and Pink Pony Club and other clubs...with strangers. I had a lovely meal in the dining hall with a family I didn't know. And the bar was fun, with good ol' Midwest drunken strangers, who I just couldn't even really muster up much conversation with. I didn't feel perky and interested in other people. I felt devestated to not have my tall, handsome husband with me, with his hand at my back, and his whispers in my ear. 

I got very drunk. Not so drunk that I couldn't walk, but I know I had more than my fair share of the cute little drink appetizers--that waiter knew where to find me--a little 7 oz. bottle of Miller High Life with a deviled egg, ham, cheese, and pickle skewer. A few Miller Lites to follow...I just sat silently at one point. I rode in another bus back to the hotel, this time without Hattie and her laughter and a heart so full. I arrived at the hotel with the same thing I left it with--my singlehood. My widowness. My awkward existence.

My saving grace, I feel like, was that Molly had my presence, my support, and my deepest love for her and her future with Tom. It was my gift to her to be there! And I also took great effort to give them a thoughtful gift that would have been picked out by Dan and me; vinyl. Some of our beloved records. Mine, Over the Rhine Drunkard's Prayer, and his, the sea and cake the fawn. I wrapped them carefully because of my tears.

I like to think of Dan watching Molly and Tom as they open the present, and listen to the records. That's how he lives on, right? So I guess if I keep going, it is him living on also.

I can do that. Look at me go.

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.

x

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.

THE ACCIDENT

Cars were diverted to one lane, moving forward at a small crawl. The sky was inky slate and the lights from the first responder vehicles pulsed in cherry brights and electric blue beams. I saw a man standing next to a truck with a tractor and equipment attached, several cops huddled nearby. Then there was a stretch of pavement mirroring the night and a white sheet covering something. More black concrete and then another truck, more cop cars. I crept forward and the pulsing lights continued, reinforced by the multiple lights at the intersection. Stoplights. Red. I hit my brakes. In my mind, I imagined the sheet again, the forms and shapes underneath. I imagined debris of organic material, from a farm. Pumpkins. Gourds. Smashes of their flesh and pulp. 

It is the body of Laurie, I would find out the next day. Laurie, who had a 12 year old cat named Zima with gray fur and a pink nose, and white tipped ears and cheeks. “Let’s help this beautiful kitty find a loving home” a friend shared on social media, hoping to reach someone through friends of friends who would take a 12 year old cat who had maybe only ever known its elderly companion. A photo showed Laurie holding Zima in her arms. Laurie wore a plush blue robe covered in white puffy clouds and stood in black boots, the laces undone and dragging on the floor. Her grey hair thinly draped her wrinkled face. Then in a single act in the night, strangers were passing by her body, witnesses to her death. 

I thought of the Palestinians, who have lived for 36 months in a nightmare of torn flesh from shrapnel, flesh on fire, bomb after bomb, witnesses to endless death. Entire family lineages have been destroyed. Each member is a single life, a life like Laurie. Or you. Or me. The survivors? Traumatized. No one is coming to help them to survive or to properly bury their loved ones. The entire world has been witnessing it with no changes. 

My home is warm and has faucets, sturdy beds, curtains, plants, and a piano. I have ice cubes and a coffee pot. I have the ashes of my husband in a thick glass-stained blue and green box, where I can look upon it anytime I want; I can touch it tenderly every day. It is surrounded by books of poetry, vinyl records, his old trombone case covered in a collection of stickers, and a framed photo of him fishing on the Nestucca. He stood with his gear on a large boulder, a smile of simple pleasure on his face, in his favorite spot, surrounded by evergreens. 

I feel guilty maybe for not adopting Zima the cat. Also as a witness to the Palestinians’ suffering with little I am able to do. And even though it is natural, I feel guilty for smiling and going about my everyday living while Dan is wildly missing from us–something that my guilty brain also still finds completely surreal even after a year and a half. It never ends. I do what little I can. I said a prayer for Laurie. I shared the post about Zima. I contact my representatives, and advocate for Palestinian rights. And for Dan, I listen to the bird calls. I tell Raine when something he does or says is like his dad. I make a batch of chili enough times that I can do it without looking at the recipe. I watch the trees, welcome sunlight in the winter, and listen to music. I write.

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