A Poem for Today

by Leah Herzing

-For Ryan + Lindsay-

The world is within me

in my tired body. The world 

and the bubbling of too much 

life, too many cells spreading,

​hard at work to take over.

I left for the pines 

where the light filters 

as pure as the whitest hair.

The light is like soft sheets

around the tall trunks with 

flaking bark that is colored

clay and pinkish-gray like a bruise.

The snow, a wet cover of skin 

over the bones of ​branches, rocks, 

and pebbles​. That thirst after the melt?

It is the muscle of meaty mushrooms,

the red-caps and the cauliflowers.

Touch them. 

I am there.  

I left for the lakes where each pool 

is a wide mouth of water.

The well-weathered Superior

with its freckled ice cracking and melting;

another so crystalline you can see

and touch the largemouth, the bluegill,

the northern pike. 

And one so opaque and saline

Where there are hundreds of birds–

the waterfowl, the wading ones 

busy at the salty edges, 

And those  infinitely diligent passerines.

All of the shorelines are an easy breath–

In and out.

In and out.

I am there.

I left for the prairie with the sun as 

eyelids of warmth​ covering the soil,

above the layered depths of dirt just letting go 

of the chill. The bluestem waves hands

as the white tailed lingers, and the rabbits

taste the sugary stalks of the tall grass. 

A year after the burn, there is a path

where the wildflowers part

and the dirt kicks up

as the children run. 

I am there. 

I left for the garden

where magnolias stretch out, offering

bowls of reddish-purple crowns.

In the hot mouth of sunlight, 

the wild bergamot grows, bees nudging its 

fingertips of lavender​.

Prickled, leafy vines hold young

heirloom tomatoes, fleshy full of juice.

Savor them with their colors of 

maroon, tangerine, pale green 

and thick yellow– painter’s colors.

Save the seeds for planting.

I am there.

All of the cycles are within me,

in the spirit of ash and sand​,

more life, more webs reaching.

My connection effervescent,

whispers always, like easy wind,

like the low-pitched call 

of the owls, 

sacred syllables echoing.

I am here.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS MOVING ON

 

Denver || 9.5.25

I have tried. Not with great intention, but rather aimlessly. It might be enough for some of you to say Yes, there is such a thing. You are doing it. Look at you go.

It doesn't feel like it, really, when I think of him constantly. When I wake, when I see the prisms around the house, or spot the birds in flight moving together in sweeping shapes in the sky, when I hear a song that I swear is meant for me from him, feeling a lazy wind through the trees... I try to imagine what it would be like if he was there in these things and signaling mystically to me. I'm distracted by this all day long every day.

I bear this loss like I did the weight of his cancer. Only that burden came with relief (as devastating as it was at the same time--the pressure did release and then I was left with nothing). This weight of loss with his death just doesn't come with relief. It will never be complete. If "free" is a goal, I don't think I can expect a day in the future other than my own moment of leaving this world when I will feel free.

In the meantime, I keep showing up. I do the things. I try. If you want to call that moving on, I guess you can. For me it is pure fight vs. flight and survival of the fittest and sometimes my mind isn't the most strong, fast, or wise. Again, I don't know what I'm doing, so let us just say there is no such thing.

For my own sanity, though, let's talk about what I have done while drifting aimlessly. For my own memory and to leave to Raine. What all of this is like.

Last September, I traveled alone for the first time. 

First I went to Denver. While Hattie was at work, I was alone in her apartment. The loneliness even in a different place made me cry. It almost hurt more than at home--which was already a messy composition of what felt like very raw pain and exasperation every night sitting on the couch and staring around the room, looking for Dan. 

He would have loved that I ventured out on my own finally and wandered through a farmer's market. I felt keenly aware of my singleness as I watched pairs of people and families bustling through the park. I had coffee and a killer breakfast sandwich, ooohed and ahhhed at booths full of plants, vegetables, jams, spirits, and art. Then I sat for a long time watching everyone.

I visited my favorite bookstore, quietly approving books as I peered at stacks of them on display tables or those lined up on the shelves with paper notes of recommendations by staff. I intuited my selection and later documented them with joy. My travel tote was heavier than I wanted, but it felt good. Books console me with their possibility for what I can feel and learn. 

And yet, Where was he for me to call and tell him about Andrea, and their books of poetry, and how they had passed, too, leaving their partner, but they left us all so many holy poems to just read and breathe in? And about the way I wrinkled my nose at the beautiful mushrooms or renewed my vow to take care of house plants, or.... or! The taste of the handmade mochi filled with black sesame cream, a layer of red velvet cake, and a dusting of black sesame powder? How adventurous was I? 

I COULD IMAGINE HIM BEAMING.

Saturday night we went to Red Rocks. I got to see Brandi again, this time with Hattie. I would have tried to describe the moon to him. How my heart dropped to the bottom of my toes at her cover of Everybody Hurts. I would have told him about the new songs she did. Her new album was coming out soon and he would never hear it.. It was always disorienting when I would realize that---because Dan always had the newest music, in almost every genre, dialed up and playing on his earbuds every morning during his walks. 

Did he see us pass the racoon eating popcorn as we left? Did he hear Hattie and I laugh the whole way back to Denver on the funny little school bus with our free beers and hearts so full of love and light? 

Milwaukee || 9.27.25

Then, back in the Midwest, I took a road trip alone. To Milwaukee. To a wedding.

I stayed at a fancy hotel and I tried to look fancy. I hadn't paid much attention to myself in the last year... No need to have chin hairs plucked or hair color died, a small waist, or painted toe nails for doctor's offices and hospital hallways. I also didn't feel like Dan needed me to be anything other than what I was typically--which I considered somewhat attractive? But I felt overweight and always looked tired. I was sure I looked cute giggling at his dance moves, though. Now I had to look at myself straight on and do my best to feel confident without my biggest cheerleader there to kiss me.

To say I cried is an understatement. I cried silently for an entire Catholic wedding, in the beautiful Old Saint Mary Church, with beautiful Molly walking down the aisle to her beautiful groom Tom. I cried with the stand-ups and sit-downs, the thoughts for those who aren't with us, and the peace-be-with-you and also-with-you each person gave to the other, and all the elements that go with the whole sacramental liturgy. I just cried.

Memories of our wedding, of our first date which was at a wedding, of our second date which was at a wedding, well, yes, many wedding memories to make me cry. But also, just the absent seat next to me in the pew, and his missing hand for me to hold. It didn't take much.

At the reception, I gave it my all. I braved the dance floor with In Da Club and Pink Pony Club and other clubs...with strangers. I had a lovely meal in the dining hall with a family I didn't know. And the bar was fun, with good ol' Midwest drunken strangers, who I just couldn't even really muster up much conversation with. I didn't feel perky and interested in other people. I felt devestated to not have my tall, handsome husband with me, with his hand at my back, and his whispers in my ear. 

I got very drunk. Not so drunk that I couldn't walk, but I know I had more than my fair share of the cute little drink appetizers--that waiter knew where to find me--a little 7 oz. bottle of Miller High Life with a deviled egg, ham, cheese, and pickle skewer. A few Miller Lites to follow...I just sat silently at one point. I rode in another bus back to the hotel, this time without Hattie and her laughter and a heart so full. I arrived at the hotel with the same thing I left it with--my singlehood. My widowness. My awkward existence.

My saving grace, I feel like, was that Molly had my presence, my support, and my deepest love for her and her future with Tom. It was my gift to her to be there! And I also took great effort to give them a thoughtful gift that would have been picked out by Dan and me; vinyl. Some of our beloved records. Mine, Over the Rhine Drunkard's Prayer, and his, the sea and cake the fawn. I wrapped them carefully because of my tears.

I like to think of Dan watching Molly and Tom as they open the present, and listen to the records. That's how he lives on, right? So I guess if I keep going, it is him living on also.

I can do that. Look at me go.

THE ACCIDENT

Cars were diverted to one lane, moving forward at a small crawl. The sky was inky slate and the lights from the first responder vehicles pulsed in cherry brights and electric blue beams. I saw a man standing next to a truck with a tractor and equipment attached, several cops huddled nearby. Then there was a stretch of pavement mirroring the night and a white sheet covering something. More black concrete and then another truck, more cop cars. I crept forward and the pulsing lights continued, reinforced by the multiple lights at the intersection. Stoplights. Red. I hit my brakes. In my mind, I imagined the sheet again, the forms and shapes underneath. I imagined debris of organic material, from a farm. Pumpkins. Gourds. Smashes of their flesh and pulp. 

It is the body of Laurie, I would find out the next day. Laurie, who had a 12 year old cat named Zima with gray fur and a pink nose, and white tipped ears and cheeks. “Let’s help this beautiful kitty find a loving home” a friend shared on social media, hoping to reach someone through friends of friends who would take a 12 year old cat who had maybe only ever known its elderly companion. A photo showed Laurie holding Zima in her arms. Laurie wore a plush blue robe covered in white puffy clouds and stood in black boots, the laces undone and dragging on the floor. Her grey hair thinly draped her wrinkled face. Then in a single act in the night, strangers were passing by her body, witnesses to her death. 

I thought of the Palestinians, who have lived for 36 months in a nightmare of torn flesh from shrapnel, flesh on fire, bomb after bomb, witnesses to endless death. Entire family lineages have been destroyed. Each member is a single life, a life like Laurie. Or you. Or me. The survivors? Traumatized. No one is coming to help them to survive or to properly bury their loved ones. The entire world has been witnessing it with no changes. 

My home is warm and has faucets, sturdy beds, curtains, plants, and a piano. I have ice cubes and a coffee pot. I have the ashes of my husband in a thick glass-stained blue and green box, where I can look upon it anytime I want; I can touch it tenderly every day. It is surrounded by books of poetry, vinyl records, his old trombone case covered in a collection of stickers, and a framed photo of him fishing on the Nestucca. He stood with his gear on a large boulder, a smile of simple pleasure on his face, in his favorite spot, surrounded by evergreens. 

I feel guilty maybe for not adopting Zima the cat. Also as a witness to the Palestinians’ suffering with little I am able to do. And even though it is natural, I feel guilty for smiling and going about my everyday living while Dan is wildly missing from us–something that my guilty brain also still finds completely surreal even after a year and a half. It never ends. I do what little I can. I said a prayer for Laurie. I shared the post about Zima. I contact my representatives, and advocate for Palestinian rights. And for Dan, I listen to the bird calls. I tell Raine when something he does or says is like his dad. I make a batch of chili enough times that I can do it without looking at the recipe. I watch the trees, welcome sunlight in the winter, and listen to music. I write.

An Honest Photo

 

An honest photo.

Taken in July on the floor of our bedroom in my dad's empty house. The bedroom that was my mother's before me, before I painted the walls dark blue, where I had spent time putting her to bed, sitting with her, talking and massaging lotion onto her frail hands and freckled arms. Now her dresser is in my room in my new home and her jewelry is divided between Rachel and me. Her quilt is stored in a box, her framed photo of her parents in one of my albums, and those clear glass ducks I remember--a set of three, each bigger than the other like patroska dolls--probably donated.

I was alone in the house for the last time. Rather than feeling flooded by memories of her, or memories of growing up, I was overwhelmed by a lingering presence of Dan in the quiet space of each room. 

First there was the kitchen, where he probably spent most of his time! I looked around at the empty counters where he had made his delicious hummus from scratch in the food processor. I liked to take it to my work potlucks for everyone to enjoy. He made zucchini bread in the summer, using vegetables from his garden, stirring up the dough in the big, heavy kitchen aid mixer, making a mess all over the place with the flour. While it baked, the entire house would smell of the fresh loaf and cinnamon. He loved to make several and share them with neighbors. I looked where his bar was, where he crafted cocktails for all occasions...white russians for friends to sip while we sat in the living room listening to records, an aperol spritz or tequila sunrise for birthday parties, an old fashioned for sitting by the fire outside or for those fantasy drafts he researched and prepared for so intently. He would sit at the computer in the kitchen and anxiously await each choice, and groan when he was frustrated. Now I watch Raine do his drafts with his friends and smile at the thought of his father. The kitchen was where he pounded out the schnitzel, the sound echoing to the living room, and where he always yelled to Raine down the hall, "Fries are hot! Burger's not!" when Raine's favorite meal was ready.

After the kitchen, I viewed the living room where we sat every evening and talked, watched shows--he had so many favorites I can't even list them, but I'll name a few: The Bear. Slow Horses. Stranger Things. (We even made costumes one year for Halloween. He wore that hilarious bright red sweater with ). Food network competitions and those weird reality shows about people trying to smuggle drugs at airports and borders. Some of these, I eventually was able to continue to watch and others I just can't seem to have the courage. His favorite spot on the couch was well worn in and and often Stormy was next to him or at his feet. We listened to records with the player that was gifted at our wedding, or used one of his many playlists on Spotify on the TV. Zeppelin, The Sea and Cake, Over the Rhine, Jeffrey Martin, Iron and Wine, Van Morrison, Sufjan Stevens. So many come to mind...    

The walk-in closet in our bedroom did me in. I sobbed where his clothing used to be--his button down shirts, worn-out graphic tees, the comfy pajama pants, an assortment of funny socks like the ones with fish or pizza on them, and stocking caps and shoes like his Adidas slides--a style he had been wearing since even before we dated. Everything is now folded carefully and packed in bins I have stored at my new house. I don't think I will ever feel "ready" to let go of them.

In the blue bedroom I remembered reading together in bed, our quiet conversations, and intimate moments lying in bed, clinging to one another in passion or in sorrow for the day we would part. I remembered the final days when he would shower, barely able to stand, and I'd stay by him and then help dry him off, rubbing the towel over his long back, the slim muscles of his arms, down to his swollen feet and ankles. I'd help get him to the bed where I would fit his oxygen cannula on again. I had a hard time getting his socks on but we wouldn't give up. I'd slide a tshirt over his bowed head, over his sloping shoulders and across his sunken chest. We'd get his comfy pants on and his light gray sweater cardigan around his shoulders. I now wear it around the house and feel comforted by its weight and oversized length and smooth, soft knit.

Before I left, I took a photo of my hope; a smile through tears. I don't know what my hope is exactly but I have it. A hope for another day with friends and family, I suppose. A hope to carry him with me every moment and share his legacy of love, kindness, generosity, humor and positivity.

In my new house, he surrounds us with memories, too. Framed photos and trinkets are everywhere--especially snails. The large and colorful painting of the three of us that Dan Johnson made after Dan was diagnosed is above the fireplace. To the left, a stand full of books of poetry and records. There are framed photos of him leaping into the air with his trombone with First Grade Crush, and fishing for salmon in Oregon, and being out in nature as a young boy. The beautiful, green and blue stained glass box that holds his ashes sit atop the stand, with rocks from his spot in the Nenstucca river. In my bedroom, there is a cabinet that holds precious items like our wedding rings, his cologne, his lucky chemo trinkets, and a beard comb that still has wiry brown hair in it. I feel very Victorian in keeping it, as well as wearing a monogram necklace every day that holds some ashes.

I am trying to cook and still yell, "Fries are hot! Burger's not!" I have worn in and shaped my spot on the new couch with Stormy next to me or at my feet. Beautiful woods and landscaping frame our house--perfectly there is a peony bush for me (my favorite) and a Japanese maple for Dan...one of his. I am trying to figure out power tools again and all of the little things that Dan did that I tried not to take for granted but probably did: light bulbs, laundry, garbage, keeping house plants alive, weeding and mowing...All of which Raine is learning, too. This year I am decorating for holidays, something Dan loved that I did. Soon I will have a fire in the back yard, listen to the squirrels doing their work in the trees, and maybe catch a glimpse of deer. Dan was once told the deer was his spirit animal. I feel his spirit everywhere, to big and beautiful to be contained to houses, and I keep moving on.

DEAREST DON RAINE || ED. 5

This is a difficult letter. I feel it is time for me to write it.

We are doing it. We are living without your father. Together.

It is painful to write. To think about. I can only write in a stream of conscioussness to you because it is still hard to organize my thoughts while grieving. We have been grieving almost a year. Almost. In two weeks it will be daddy's birthday. And a month later, there we are. May 8th. A whole year. 

You are 13, about to be 14 this summer. It is 2025. The last time I wrote to you, it was 2020. 

Everything that I hoped for you in that letter has come to pass: you continued to giggle, to cuddle, you still trusted in us--and now, me, alone. I am astonished to see the values in you that we hoped for, and the ease with which you operate in the world with them, as if it is as natural as breathing. You are independent in mind and also tasks! (managing your schoolwork, doing your own laundry, helping with things like the dishwasher, shoveling snow, picking up dog poo... Lol. You especially help with Stormy, your wild dog we adopted during Covid.) 

You are so very kind and respectful. Your sense of humor is growing and taking shape. Your father is in you in the best ways! You share his genes of punctuality, caring for me, loving sports and excelling in school, and a zen-like, laid-back nature. You have spent the last several years growing and learning at school, enjoying basketball, and making more friends. You are much more social! It is fun to see. 

And the last two years you have especially watched and somehow had been processing the disease and break-down of your father's body, and his death. I remember key moments when it all struck you hard. For example, a year ago, we had tickets and plans for a trip to Europe for the summer, and I told you we had to cancel. 

You asked, Then when will we go?? 

I had to tell you with a lump in my throat that I didn't think your father would ever be able to travel again. He was in so much pain, he could hardly ride in a car for 15 minutes. We knew the cancer was terminal and would tell you soon, some evening soon, the three of us -and Stormy- hugging together on our bed. 

But before, I think in your own way in that moment talking about the trip, you were asking me if he was going to die. If it wasn't, my answer certainly confirmed the thought that was perhaps vaguely shifting around in your subconscious mind. You had cried yourself to sleep.

||

And the moment. The moment I came to you at the dining room table where you were eating breakfast. I will always remember it but I want to write to you. The morning sun was already bright and streaming into the living room windows. It was a beautiful day. This is what I think I remember: I told you that you wouldn't be going to school. You asked Why and scooped more cereal into your mouth. I waited for you to swallow.

I tip-toed toward it. I think I reminded you of how sick Dan had been the last two days. How we had our time at the hospital alternating holding his hands, watching him sleep, and glancing around at family - Nana and Papa, Uncle Doug, Aunt Rachel -all of us who had tears we couldn't keep still with bursts of blush to our noses and cheeks.

Tip-toe. I explained we needed to go to the hospital today. I paused. 

There was only one thing to say and I had to just say it.

"Daddy died."

You wailed softly and began crying. 

I hugged you awkwardly across the space between our chairs. After a while, we let go and you hiccupped with tears. 

A long pause. 

Then you looked toward the piano, to all of the framed photos of the three of us together in Europe: You and your dad beaming in the summer heat in front of the Colosseum in Rome, he and I embracing in the pool at our villa in Chiancioano Terme - the smile of laughter on his face! You and him dressed in matching white linen button downs for the ceremony, standing side by side. My handsome boys. 

The photos of him ripped more out of you and you wailed again. You cried more. I held you.

Then you went to our bedroom and lay in our bed and cried. I gave you space. I sat at the table in torture at the gravity of your loss. Your loss of innocence. The gaping wound I had inflicted. 

I love you so much and I hope you felt that through the pain. I am so proud of you for sustaining what I had to tell you. Taking it in, and you have been living it, so strongly and wisely, as time has gone by.

|||

|||

 

More soon, sweetie. This is all I can write today.

Love,

Mama

EIGHT MONTHS

I sobbed as we reached the final hours of 2024. I wasn't ready to leave the year in which Dan was alive.

I have these moments. Weeping and shaking with pain and longing. I always tried to imagine what it would feel like--to prepare myself, but you just don't know until you are in it. I gasp, "Babe!" calling out to him, to the silence.

I have things to write about and photos to share. Eight months of moment by moment living. I want to document my continued life and my grief. But it is too painful to focus my attention and type the words. 

I will try. Here are some memories.

I am now Stormy's bestie.

Summer sitting in the back yard at Gillman, where he sat. Stormy at my side. Listening to and watching the sparrows, doves, and the occasional cardinal, reminding me of my mom.

To be read.

The book I was mysteriously gifted in the mail. I have yet to read it because I haven't been able to find the time to sit still and read. I did read Letters of Note: Grief almost immediately, and it helped me reflect on my pain and disbelief in order to write his eulogy. 

I couldn't hang his stocking. It was too painful and felt awkward.

Not only the holidays and anniversaries--His absence was felt everywhere throughout the house all the time. There was no respite from that jarring reality. During the inital shock (a month or so?) it felt like he was on a trip and would be home any moment. It hurt immensely to realize over and over again this was not the case.

A sweet gift from Annalisa

Family and friends are a lifeline, though it is wispy and hard to see, it is strong like a spider thread. I have made so many phone calls and texts while crying, reaching out for them to fill the void in my heart, the emptiness in my stomach, the hollow challenge of being alone. They have each been present in some small way-- mail, gifts, and flowers, sharing their memories and moments of memorial, and coaxed me through the blizzard of my path. I long to be with them all the time, as if being in the same room with someone who also knew and loved Dan can bring me relief.

Kristi carries her coaster with her everywhere and sends me photos.

 

Tobin's LP featured a DAN FOREVER tribute.

Le Fleur delivers a bouquet from April and family on the 8th of every month. My mother also died on the 8th in December. 

8th grade night -- "The late Dan Herzing and Leah Herzing," announced for Raine's parents.

I don't know if I will ever write about the moment I had to tell Raine that his father died. It is not only my story to share. I do want to write more about how incredible Raine is and how his grief is healthy and not destructive. I hope it will always be that way. I am his guide as a grieving wife and I do my best to show Raine myself as a kindred spirit of Dan's---Positive, funny, kind, strong but also vulnerable and comfortable with that.

Tax season 2025.

Everything is a reminder of Dan's death and in each moment, I challenge myself to move through it, letting it be what it is no matter how painful, and remain standing after. My sorrow connects me to humanity and I try to honor it as I would any other person's.

 

MOVING THINGS

his aldi stocking cap. turquoise, orange, red, the logo, you know, completely obnoxious!

work boots still covered in dirt.

this travel pillow I bought for him when his neck hurt from having to sleep in chairs because laying flat in a bed was too painful.

a 24 oz jar of homemade tea by jess, aptly named the fuck cancer tea.

the waxahatchee vinyl. i don't know why but i didn't get into listening to them until after he died.

a bucket of coffee beans. i can inhale part of his smell.

the book from grant that he was about to read. "60 songs that explain the 90s."

his gray wool flat cap he got when he was in scotland with doug. 

his candy stash in the top kitchen corner cabinet. especially all the peeps he liked stale.

the elvis costello poster that wasn't my decor vibe so i never let him hang it up in our homes. lol.

a comb with beard hair.

his faithful pruners.

the wood block stamp for his japanese name he got in okinawa. "advancement," "worship."

his titanium wedding ring.

the tree of life crystal i had hung next to his hospital bed.

a cute narwhal card he wrote in and gave me for our last christmas together, unknowingly. 

    Wifey - Merry Christmas! We made it through another year. I know this time of year is hard, but just to let you know that hugs & snuggles are free and unlimited (to a point). I didn't get you any massage certificates, so maybe this $ can get you one or two. Or spend it anyway you would like. I just want you to get something that makes you feel good and happy. Can't wait to see our son's face when he opens his gifts. He is probably the best gift you ever gave to me. :) Love, Dan

rocks from the nestucca river in oregon where we spread his ashes.

his beautiful urn. it is so beautiful but so sacred i feel like i can't even share a photo of it.

....

all of these things to take with me to our new home.

THREE MONTHS

 \\

HOW ARE YOU? \\ ?

    I feel very strong and positive. 

        I know that I will live in Dan's love forever.

I see myself and think. I am ::

\\ capable.

Tender.

    (loved) \ Resilient.

I also feel sick with grief. 

It is so   B  I   G  and achey

inside my chest.

I often whisper over and over, "Dan!"

 \\

HOW ARE YOU INSPIRED TO KEEP GOING

WHEN IT IS HARD? \\ ?

        

Honestly, there is so much sorrow in the world and I feel mine is a tiny speck within it all. 

I am not alone.

I'm inspired to help others - those who are suffering, 

who need hope.

And, Raine.

HOW IS RAINE DOING? \\ ?

\\ He is his father's son.

Their shared : qualities are showing when he comforts me--

    \\ kind, thoughtful, caring, quick wit, optimism. 

And after writing about Raine on this blog for the past 12 years,

I now know there is only so much I can share.

He is a young man now.

His own individual.

***

He desperately misses his father.

He takes it a day at a time.

***

\\\ I always knew losing his father would change him.

It has only made his heart bigger. //

 

MONDAY BULLETS ON TUESDAY

Copied from April 2011

To do:

• Look through photos for memory boards 
  
• Call social security to figure out dumb stuff
• Go to post office and get stamps
• Go to therapy

Contemplating:

• Selling two cars and getting one
• Songs for friends to sing at the service and parties
• How much I loved my husband

Eating/Craving:

• Honeycombs
• Protein bars
• Coffee
• Avocado toast
  

Listening to:

• Dan's playlists
  

Wearing:

• Dan's cardigan
• Wide legged jeans

Addictions:

• My blankie

Missing:

• My husband's kisses, hugs, cooking, laughter, funny little dance moves

Making:

• Collection of notes and thoughts as I grieve
• Tags for special gifts at memorial service

Wish list:

• New book "The Light Eaters"
• A used Subaru Outback. Dan found me my dream car 8 years ago but it is time to let go. *sigh*

DANIEL JAMES HERZING

 

It is with a sorrowful heart but also joyful heart…I share that my sweet husband Daniel James Herzing joined the universe yesterday morning and we see him everywhere now in the trees and blooms he loved so much and the sky that rained so generously upon us through our 20 years together. He died peacefully and with family. Please spend your day listening to music you love and giving yourself in kindness to others just as he did.