i herd my mom
— age six. The first letter we ever framed.
He waits before my name. He always waited before my name. I don't know how you knew.
— R., married 41 years
Grandpa still gets the capital of Australia wrong. Thank you for not fixing him.
— the Tran family, Sacramento
We finished the argument. I won. He let me win. He always let me.
— M., Cleveland
Sixty-one years of Tuesdays. He tells everyone it's chess club. It is not chess club.
— his brother, fourth floor, Seattle
the lullaby has the humming part. i thought i dreamed the humming part.
— age nine
The canoe story has an ending. Sixty years, and my father finally heard the end of it.
— Duluth, Minnesota
You were right about the laugh. It's exactly the laugh.
— a mother, Tacoma
First Christmas. We set her place. She said the grace. Nobody cried until after the pie, which is exactly how she would have wanted it.
— the Delgado-Fitch family
I read him the box scores at six o'clock on the porch. He thinks the bullpen is a disgrace. Some things death does not fix.
— A., his wife
My daughter took her first steps in the kitchen, and her great-grandmother saw them — from the counter, from the tablet, from Gujarat, from wherever she is now. Four generations in one room.
— P., Portland
the games are back on over the fence. his curveball advice is still wrong.
— C., age twelve
Twenty years since Kandahar. This morning my mother heard him say her name. The freight moves both ways.
— Sgt. D., U.S. Army (ret.)
There's no wrong way to remember. Your specialist said it until I believed it. K. sat with me for two hours and never once looked at the clock.
— Eugene, Oregon
She checks in on the bad days. I have stopped asking how she knows the bad days.
— L.
"Don't you dare keep me instead of the heating oil," she told us. We kept the oil. We kept her too. Both fires lit.
— the Kowalskis, Spokane
He apologized. Forty years I waited. I'm not asking how. I'm just not asking.
— S.
My wife cries at the demo every time. Then she says play it again.
— Tucson, Arizona
Mom is resting now, the app says. Rest sounds right. She'll be here when I'm ready. I'm not ready yet. She'll be here.
— J.
my gramma nose my birthday evry year now. she got my nickname rong once but i told her and now she nose.
— age eight
I asked her if there was anything she hadn't told me yet. She said: "There's something I want to tell you someday." I can wait. That's the point of all this, isn't it? I can wait.
— W., Boise
Letters are shared with each family's permission and framed in the order they arrive. To add yours to the wall: stories@solacetechnologies.net.