As I held my imaginary conversations with these ancestors—Emilie and Emil and Joseph—I got the same sense from each of them.

Isolation.

They shifted from being story fragments to wounded people, from yellowed photographs to whatever is the color of loneliness.

Because it seemed fitting—and necessary—I did a second meditation with each of them in mind: Ho’oponopono.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

Thank you.

For what would I say “Please forgive me” to Emilie, who died 53 years before I was born?

For continuing her wound, focusing my attention on her husband and her children, overlooking her.

2025

I’m at my mom’s, following a hospital visit for what they thought was a heart attack but turned out to be gastrointestinal distress. In the follow-up visit, the cardiologist beamed as she said, “Your heart is in excellent health. You are the healthiest 95-year-old in the building.” The cardiologist canceled my mom’s heart medications.

Last night, bringing dinner back from the cafe to eat in her apartment, Mom said she wanted to get her mail. As she veered her scooter toward the mailboxes, I went into her apartment and unpacked our meal.

But Mom never came through the front door. I looked out, didn’t see her, and leashed Roxie. “Let’s go find Mom.”

Several hallways away, Mom came toward us, scooter whining.

“Mom, where did you go?”
“I think I was driving in circles.”

Today I talked with the community social worker and then with Mom. Then Roxie and I went to Big Tree so I could fold myself over her reclined trunk and cry.

PS: Thanks to Chris Z for the visit, Chris W for the introductory breakfast, and Laurie for the texts. I’m here but I’m not alone.

Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for Big Tree.