Memorial Day, one year later
Today carried something different.
Memorial Day comes every year. Working at the lake house has happened for the last five years. In many ways, nothing about the day was new. And yet, as the hours unfolded, I felt as if I were living with a rear-view mirror—keenly aware of exactly where we were at this time last year.
It began last night.
We went out on a pontoon night cruise, something our family has done often. The conversation always ebbs and flows between lighthearted laughter and more meaningful reflection. Pontoon rides are simple, familiar, and deeply loved by all of us.
Last year, however, it was cold, and my Mom and I decided to stay back at the house. It was a surprise when Aunt Dot announced she wanted to go.
Truthfully, it felt out of character.
She rarely participated without my Mom or me, especially as the progression of Lewy Body disease continued to shape her world. But she loved the people she was with, and we smiled as we watched her walk out the door accompanied by Johanna.
At the end of the evening, just before heading upstairs to bed, Aunt Dot turned to Johanna and said:
“Thank you for companioning me.”
It felt meaningful. It felt unforgettable.
We simply held the moment, never imagining it would be her final night cruise with us.
The next morning—Memorial Day—began beautifully.
Aunt Dot had settled into familiar rhythms despite the steady progression of Lewy Body disease. Her movements had slowed, but her patterns remained predictable. Usually, she would head downstairs for coffee. Instead, she wandered into the room across the hall where my Mom, Umi, and I were just waking.
She moved toward my bed.
I suggested bringing coffee to both my Mom and Aunt Dot in bed, and while I stepped away to make it, Aunt Dot quietly climbed into my spot.
The unfolding of those moments created some of my favorite pictures.
There was laughter, warmth, and something deeply tender about the ordinariness of it all—coffee in bed, shared presence, no awareness that we were unknowingly holding sacred final moments.
Aunt Dot valued excellence—not in flashy ways, but in quiet attentiveness.
She noticed details.
One place this became beautifully evident was in cleaning mildew from the white railings at the lake house. Year after year, Aunt Dot could be found moving steadily from rail to rail with brush, cloth, and bucket in hand, patiently restoring each spindle until it gleamed.
This afternoon, we found ourselves in those same places.
Brushes in hand. Sun overhead.
Working with care.
And somehow, it felt holy.
Not because scrubbing railings is meaningful work in itself, but because grief has a way of transforming ordinary actions into remembrance. It felt like honoring her—the diligence, the care, the quiet pride she carried in doing small things well.
Then lunchtime came and went.
I found myself watching the clock.
Aware.
At this time last year, Aunt Dot touched my Mom’s shoulder and pointed to her throat. We realized she was choking.
And from there, time became strange.
Blurred.
Even now, we ask questions: How long did it take for EMS to arrive? How long from their arrival until they called the time of death? We waited for a funeral home to come from Grand Rapids. Calls were made. People gathered. Decisions were somehow made while hearts were breaking.
When I replay those hours now, they move like a slow-motion movie.
Certain grief anniversaries are like that.
The body remembers before the mind catches up.
A smell.
A clock.
A railing.
A pontoon ride.
A familiar room.
All day, memories surfaced—not dramatically, but quietly, steadily, faithfully.
And somewhere in the midst of it, I noticed something I could not yet see a year ago.
Last year, sorrow felt like a flood.
I could not yet see the river of gratitude, nor was I fully looking for it.
But somewhere over this last year, the river of sorrow has narrowed, though it will always flow because I lost someone deeply dear to me.
And alongside it, another river began to form.
Gratitude first trickled.
Then flowed.
Then gathered momentum.
The joy.
The laughter.
The availability.
The friendship.
The gift of being companioned by someone I loved so deeply.
Perhaps this is what love looks like after loss—not forgetting, not moving on, but learning to carry sorrow and gratitude together.
And when I think of Aunt Dot now, more often than not, I find myself smiling.
Remembering coffee in bed.
Clean railings.
Pontoon rides.
And the sacred gift of having shared life with someone unforgettable.
Aunt Dot, you will always be loved and present n our heart as!
