River deep, mountain high

Dear Emma,

It has been four years since you left us.

Even though in other areas of my life, four years feels like a million, with you it doesn't feel as long as that. The pain, while duller at this point than it was, is still fairly acute and close to the surface.

When we were at the beach this past summer, Zeke was going through some stuff (still is, honestly), and your dad and I did some bonding over the dilemmas of single parenting and pushing through the difficulties. And we talked about you a little bit, and what that is like for him. He is an amazing person and an amazing father, and truly an inspiration to me. I have more respect for his strength, resilience, and grace under pressure than I can possibly say.

It made me think that another reason that your death was such a tragedy - on top of the tragedy of your life having been cut short, and the family's loss and grief - is that you are missing out on the experience of having the love and support and guidance of such an incredible father.

I climbed another mountain for you this past weekend for your yahrtzeit. The only deviation from tradition is that I wore a different baseball cap because I can't find the green Red Sox hat that I usually wear. It actually really bothered me not to have that hat.

Every year the way I approach the climb changes a little bit. So many people I know have lost loved ones recently. I thought that maybe instead of just hiking for you, I would ask people if there was a loved one they wanted me to carry up the mountain as a way of honoring their memory. In the end, I carried nineteen names in addition to yours. I was touched by how much it meant to people, and I was touched by how much it meant to me as well.

We climbed Mt. Democrat in honor of the upcoming midterm elections. I feel like you would have approved of that. Neither Christin nor I had a good night's sleep, but I think that actually portends a good climb, because our best climbs have come on days after a shitty night's sleep.

This was a great climb.

I have been doing some running over the past couple of months. My body hates it - I get weird pains in my hips, my boobs are too big, it's not pleasant for me. But I sure felt the results - I was astounded by how much stronger I felt at high altitude. I only had to really gut it out with 50-steps-then-50-breaths for the last 100 feet or so.

And man, was it ever a gorgeous day. The sun was shining and the aspens are gold and Christin and I could not stop marveling at how lucky we are to live in Colorado.

The yahrtzeit hike presents such a range of feelings and thoughts. It always takes me back to those awful days immediately after your death, because the reason I started walking so much after you died - the reason the climb is at once so fulfilling while at the same time being so wrapped up in losing you - was because of the amazing hike up the Longs Peak trail that Christin and I did 4 days before you died.  When we were in New Hampshire doing our version of shiva, miserable and devastated and out of our minds with grief, all I could think of was that day on the mountain when everything was beautiful and perfect and life-affirming. I was desperate to get back there.

And so I take myself back there every year, in your honor. I get to experience the beauty and perfection that makes me feel the life and strength in my body, while also keeping your memory vibrant. I think that that's what makes reaching the summit such a mix of accomplishment and pride and sorrow - that punch in the gut that makes me catch my breath and cry as soon as we take that final step to the top of the world.

It's like every year, through the joy and effort and flood of memory and emotion that the climb brings on, I re-experience that juxtaposition of intense happiness and then intense agony from four years ago. The climb itself brings you back to life in my head, only to experience losing you again.

As hard as it is, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.

I hope you know how loved and missed you still are. We don't shy away from talking about you - you are and will always be part of us. Our family will never be complete without you. We miss your smile and your energy and your kindness and your generosity of spirit and your sense of humor. We miss hearing about what you're up to.

We just miss you. I miss you. I love you and I always will.

Wendy