“I hear a baby calling,” I said to my husband Vic in 1970. After a day at Big Basin Redwoods State Park, we were driving toward the tiny stucco house we rented near a walnut orchard and
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My son Anthony sent a text last week. “Leaving San Francisco now.” Their move to rural New York had been planned for many months, so that was no surprise. I wanted to write back: “Watch out for snow
Read more →“A ritual would help,” I said to my friend Pat. “I’d love that,” she said. “I’ll think about it. I want to be near water.” I’d just arrived at Pat’s home. She and I met in 1970
Read more →“Are you OK?” Lauren asked when she called the morning after Vic died. Lauren Cottrell Banner is one of a few friends who attended Vic’s death. She helped me swab his mouth, chant prayers, and read passages
Read more →“It’s gone,” I cried out with tears sprinting down my cheeks. Vic was building a fire at the campground where we planned to stay that night. “What’s gone?” he said. “My wedding ring,” I sobbed. “It’s not
Read more →In 1967, Vic persuaded me to lie in a sleeping bag on the cold ground in March. We held each other while waves of green, yellow, and pink tinted the sky—a divine aurora borealis lightshow. It was
Read more →Vic and I were in Palo Alto at the Free University Psychodrama Commune where residents were free to express every feeling and do what they wanted as long as they told the truth about it. Robb Crist
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