These aren’t my mother’s shoes. But they remind me of them. When my mother was dying, she chose to spend her final days in the downstairs bedroom. It was easier. Close to the bathroom. Close to the heart of the house. At some point, she stopped going upstairs to her room. I don’t remember exactly when. What I do remember is going back up there after she died. I stood in the doorway and just took it all in. Everything was exactly as she left it. The room felt full… and empty at the same time....

Growing up, I don’t remember having many meaningful conversations around death, dying, or grief. And that’s not shade, it’s just the...

A couple of months ago, I met a gentleman during an Uber ride, and we struck up an interesting conversation. It began with him sharing a...