There is something so satisfying about weeding my garden. Unlike most chores or the work I do teaching and writing, where it can be hard to measure success or even know when a thing is finished, when you weed you can see clearly what you’ve accomplished, a cleared space. There is a distinct before and after.

Working in my garden never fails to make me think about Kelly. Sixteen years ago, (HOW has it already been 16 years, and yet also so much has happened since then), when the message arrived that Kelly was being sent home with hospice care, that there was nothing else they could do for her, that the moment we wished and prayed wouldn’t ever arrive was now there, we were going to lose her, her physical body was going to die and it would happen soon, all I could think to do is fall to my knees in my garden and pull weeds.

At that time, I still held a sense of disbelief around death. Yes, my grandparents had already died and of course someday far in the future my parents would follow, but death closer than that felt unfair, unnatural, practically impossible. My first dog Obi was diagnosed with a treatable but ultimately incurable cancer the same week as Kelly got her breast cancer diagnosis, but as hard as it was and would be, I knew most if not all of my dogs would all die before I did, but certainly not Kelly. She would be treated and live to be free of cancer. There didn’t seem any other possible option. And yet, six months after Obi died, Kelly would follow.

I’m aware now, 16 years later, having lost two more dogs, my sister-in-law, three of my “other” mothers, two beloved uncles, my dad and now so near to losing my mom altogether, that death isn’t just close, it’s my roommate. And every time, I fall to my knees and weed the garden. With each loss, I plant another peony bush in the center where the massive cottonwood tree used to stand.

As I live with this deepened intimate awareness of death, with the compound grief of so much loss, I am also aware that death doesn’t remove someone completely. Just like the bindweed in my garden that I pull and pull, season after season, the roots of love are deep and it continues to linger, to hold on. In this way, we never really entirely lose those we love. They are with us still, years later. We can no longer hear their voice or their laugh, we cannot hug them or hold their hand, and yet they are undeniably there, solid and present.

After Kelly died, some of us started to see ladybugs. Ladybugs are thought to be a positive omen representing good luck, prosperity, love, and protection. They are a reminder that she is still with us, that everything is okay, even when it isn’t. This year in my garden, maybe something to do with the warmer than usual winter, there are so many ladybugs, more than I’ve ever seen before. I was out just this morning, on my knees in my garden pulling weeds, and they were everywhere.

More things I’ve written about Kelly:

• Kelly Jo, October 8, 2011: “It’s cloudy, windy, gray, with a little bit of rain here today. That seems right. Today is Kelly’s birthday.”
• Dance Party, October 8, 2011: “A while back, I wrote an essay and made a dance party mix tape in Kelly’s honor and mailed it to some friends.”
• The world is never the same after she is there, May 14, 2012: “‘A girl who knows who she is shows up with so much light, confidence and love for everyone and everything around her that the room, the world is never the same after she is there.’ This quote describes my friend Kelly perfectly–so much light, confidence and love for everyone and everything around her—her life, her presence on this earth meant the world would never be the same, and two years ago today, the world was forever changed in another way when she passed.”
• Don’t Give Up, May 14, 2014: “This was the view this morning from my front porch, just as Eric and I were leaving to walk the dogs. It makes sense that the sky was extra beautiful this morning. Four years ago on May 14th, Kelly died, and while that remains one of the worst things, she was one of the best.”
• Day of Rest: Remembering Kelly, May 15, 2016: “About a week ago, I went out to check how many blooms my peonies would have this year. I have three of them — one for Obi, one for Kelly, and one for Heather and now Dexter, planted at the edge of the spot where our Cottonwood tree used to be, a tiny memorial to so much loss. As I counted the blooms, I noticed one had a friend, a ladybug. It always feels like a nudge from Kelly, and to see one on my peonies is a double whammy.”
• Three Truths and One Wish, May 14, 2019: “Grief is something you never get over, you just get used to it. Nine years ago today, Kelly died.”
• On the Origins of Things, October 8, 2019: “Today would have been my friend Kelly’s birthday. Would have been, because nine years ago, at only 37 years old, she died.”