Mountains and Seas

sensical and impossible

Jun 26, 2026

June 26, 2026

Today marks a year since Jess died. She was my person, and I hers. We were in deep since day one. We were work partners and travel buddies. She was the better of us at parenting and financial planning. A naturally loving Grandma to my caring but more aloof Grandpa. We were both more than just a bit damaged and built much what we needed to repair, both as a couple and also as individuals, in the container we built.

I am more grateful and glad than I can express the universe unfolded such that we bumped into one another. A naturally skeptical NYC kid and a naturally optimistic Ohio girl. Our dating was just as unlikely as unavoidable. She will always be my beloved. The absolute love of my life.

I don’t give much thought to fate. Nor to the notion of a soul. Jess and I had wonderful and meaningful conversations on these things, both before her diagnosis and after. But if such things were to exist, It’d be easy to believe we were, in fact, soul mates. Fated to both learn from and teach one another in this life. Mostly about presence and kindness, caring and compassion.

It still feels unreal that she’s died, sometimes. Impossible even. Unfair and preventable. Incredibly and uniquely defining, and also entirely mundane. I’ve heard it said that death is nothing special. Everyone dies. So of course she did.

Some Buddhists believe life and death are neither true beginning nor true ending. That what we think of as “me” and “my”and “being alive” are, in some sense, an illusion. I tend to agree. And still, the death of Jess continues to be the most painful illusion.

I’ve not written here as much in the past year as I’d imagined I might. Even as I’d been encouraged to. Maybe another illusion was that my grief would be transformed into poetry. Into beautiful words to express love and loss. But the truth is it’s been painful to sit down and try to do that. Not that I avoid pain, but there were and are things that need to be painful in solitude. Or at least not on display. And as small as this humble, lowbrow substack is, hitting publish feels public. I’m glad it feels important to write something here today. I’m glad it feels right.

What follows is two parts.

A letter of sorts to Jess. If you’ve “done the work”, either in a program or most any kind of therapy, you’re probably familiar with the idea of writing “to” someone. Even if you end up burning it. Even if they are dead. There’s something about the healing potential of getting stuff down with pen and paper.
A short poem. I don’t believe most writing benefits much, if any, from explanation. Either the reader immediately feels it, kinda gets it, hates it, or is indifferent. Either is okay because poetry is, first and foremost for me at least, something the writer has to do. It’s a vital form of self care. Often even a life saving act. These words batter and bash about our brains compulsively until they are let out. Often in a fever or a fury. And so, it makes no difference whether or not the reader understands what the writer was meaning to say, or if they have an entirely different takeaway. Both are perfect.

during a hopeful period, NIH treatment on the horizon

But before we go there, while I’ve still got you I want you to hear a couple things Jess would want you to hear on this, the anniversary of her death.

Young people are dying of colon cancer. Know the signs and get screened. Do this as early as you can, even if you have to pay out of pocket (there are free and low-cost resources), and especially if you have a family history.
Scientists estimate there are as many as 2 trillion galaxies in the universe. Galaxies are cool and that’s an astounding number. But it’s much less than the 37.2 trillion cells in the human body. The fact you were born, against all odds and as a human on earth in the 21st century no less, is incredible. Life is a gift. You are a wonder. Find ways to act like it daily.

the last pic of Jess and I, from an ill advised, very necessary trip, about a week before she died

Okay, the letter.

Hey babe.

In my mind, I’ve been here before. Many times. The one year anniversary of the day of your death. 356 days since you gave up your body. Left it in our care so you could make your transition to whatever adventure lay ahead. Or to unburden yourself. A final act. A last preparation for an ending.

This however is the actual first time I’ve been here. And to be honest, I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to think, do, say or feel. It’s confusing and I wish I could talk to you about it. Which seems to be the only thing that makes sense.

Of the times I’d imagined this day, often I’d be doing something, in a broad sense, creative. Which I suppose I am. I took myself on a coffee date to our favorite coffee shop in the nearby crunchy town of Yellow Springs, right at the foot of some of our favorite hiking and half a mile up the road from where we laid your body in the ground. Hopefully currently under an oak sapling - it wasn’t planted yet last time I was here. I’ll know soon enough. As for the creativeness part, here I sit, drinking coffee and writing, listening to my favorite writing playlist through a set of old headphones.

Sunday, our wedding anniversary, the loose plan is for another date. Dinner at our favorite Thai maybe. I trust I’ll know when I get there. Earlier in the day I’ll be at a baby shower. I also signed up for a sketch class at the Dayton Society of Artists, which I think you’d have enjoyed as a date idea. In any case, you always encouraged the exploration of my creative side. So I honor it to honor both myself and you and us. Though I’d always feign embarrassment, making light and shying away from praise, it warmed my heart more than I ever let on that you were a truly present witness of any art I’d make. I needed that to make space for some much needed healing.

Despite writing being something I’ve done a fair share of, for a non-writer at least, I’m not that great at it. I’m not beating myself up, I know I’m not the worst, I just can’t seem to use words the way writers I admire - Andrea, James, Octavia, Mary, Padraig, and so many others - seem effortlessly able to.

I have a decent vocabulary and an honest love of words. But the right ones don’t seem to show up as easily and in the correct order in written form as when they flow more directly. Straight from brain to lips. Intelligible air sounds come more easily to me than legible and sensical hand shaped forms. Maybe that’s my inferiority complex, the belief I need more education on everything before doing anything. Maybe it’s just that the editing process has to happen more with written word than with spoken. The simple fact that writing (or typing) takes more time than speaking lends the act to more critical review. And something I’ve always had a talent for is self-criticism. An acquired skill I honed to a sharp edge in an effort to feel safe. It’s not my best trait.

So I’ll start by saying I miss you. Terribly. I really wish you were here, laughing and smiling and making fun of my idiosyncrasies. Rolling smiling eyes at my tendency to overthink and then overshare. My habit of leaving the soy milk next to the stove instead of back in the fridge when I’ve waited too long to eat and my hunger for my breakfast oats overpowers my usually tidy kitchen manners.

Also, and this was an interesting surprise, I miss caring for you. Being your caregiver was, and maybe will always be, the most rewarding job I ever had. It wasn’t always easy or pleasant, and lord knows we continued to bicker, disagree and fight over small stuff from time to time, but I loved it. I truly found such meaning there. So much that it’s led me to wonder if maybe I’m not a good person anymore, now that I’m not a husband taking good care of his sick wife. All the physical stuff like wound care, making meals and managing meds, but also making space for all the feelings, kissing your tears, and listening to you as you worked through the really difficult stuff.

I grieve all the futures we won’t get to build together. And the really challenging part is that it continues to grow and expand, not fading and settling like the things I miss from the past.

I miss the physical you. Your warmth next to mine. Our hands intertwined gently, my pinky caressing your wedding ring. Our breath, mingled between the pillows. The anticipation of making love to one another. Sweat on sweat and soft lips on soft lips. I long too, for your presence.

It’s really hard to go about life without you some times. So I do my best to remember to remember, to say what we learned helps to say to ourselves when life is difficult…

It’s okay. I love you. Keep going.
XOXO ❤️

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published



Mountain and Sea: sensical and impossible

Mountain and sea both
Recall only what has past
None may see beyond

Jess Fox was a good one. One of the best. It’ll always be sad that she died young. May I and we, at the same time, also feel the joy of her memory, and be inspired to seek awe in the ordinary.

You can find Jess’ substack here - You Can’t Blame Your Mother for Everything.