On Saturday, I thought I was going to die. The world outside the car turned white in a matter of minutes, and my Uber driver explained that this is the worst time to drive. Right when it comes down. The roads are so slick, so suddenly. He’d much rather drive when there’s 2–3 inches on the ground. I pointed my camera toward the window to take a photo of the snow for Iris when I heard him say something about looking at the cars up ahead. Then we swerved to the left, across two lanes on the freeway. I looked behind me, over my right shoulder, and saw a car coming right toward me. Then: Boom. Boom. Boom. We were hit from every direction, like bumper cars. The airbag deployed, and I saw a tiny flame inside of it, smoke coming out, filling my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The flame made me think the car was going to explode, so I started to get out, but the driver, bleeding everywhere, told me to stay put and brace myself in case we got hit again.

That’s when I thought: I’m going to die. My children will grow up without me. My husband will be alone. My mother will have to bury two children in the same week. What a strange fucking thing to happen three days before your yahrzeit.

Naturally, I’ve been thinking about endings. Mine, yours, the kids at Parkland and Sandy Hook. The people in Aurora. The people in the other Aurora. They’re so sudden and unpredictable. How can something so profoundly meaningful be so unceremonious?

I was in Denver giving a talk on resilience because the fucking hits just keep on coming, trying to destroy me, but I press on and stay busy and fill sippy cups and wipe snotty noses. Sometimes I want to give up. Not that I want to die — I just want to live in a bubble, protected from any further catastrophes or traumas to unpack in therapy. It’s hard not to think I’m cursed, which is so dumb and self-indulgent — but, late that night, when I got in touch with Dean, my Uber driver, he told me he’s driven over 2500 passengers, and this was his first crash. A 49 car pile-up. I didn’t want to tell him it was because I was in the car. That I’m marked. Branded. A magnet for mayhem. It’s exhausting.

I’m directing a play. It opens tomorrow, on my birthday. It’s a one woman show about a woman who lost her 7 year old son in a school shooting. In the play, she says:

you can’t help but wonder

how it can be that a mother can drop her son off at

school one unremarkable September day

then never see the oasis of his smile

or any part of him

again

as if he disappeared into thin air.

Iris — objectively still the most awesome person on the planet — loves going to school. She loves her friends, her teachers, the stray cat that always hangs around campus. PE, science and art are her favorite classes. And recess. She loves recess. Every morning when I drop her off, she hops out of the car, flinging her giant rainbow-and-unicorn-patterned pink backpack over her shoulder, and scurries into the building with such confidence and enthusiasm. I watch her in the rearview mirror getting smaller and smaller as she walks towards the double glass doors and then disappears.

Like most things, this simple morning ritual has taken on new meaning now that I’m a person who is preoccupied with endings. A person who, because of you, understands the finiteness of life. We are given such limited time. At any moment, death is a moment away. Trying to balance that stark reality with the boundless joy that comes along with raising little people, who you love so ferociously, continues to be the most epic mind-fuck of all.

Let me tell you about Harry. The night before he was born, we were still unsure of what to call him. We knew we wanted to name him after you, obviously, but we weren’t sure if we should do the whole name or just the first initial. We’d been calling him Fluffhead in utero, but that wasn’t going to work on the outside. We went back and forth and finally decided on Harris Dylan. But once he came out, and we gave him your name, I called the NICU where he was whisked away for 36 hours, and said, “This is Harris’s mom,” then broke down into a puddle of tears. You already had a mom. Ours. It didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to feel the sadness that smothers your name every time I said it for the duration of our lives, so we retracted, and he remained nameless for two days. “Untitled Wachs Project,” we called him. We finally settled on Harrison, and we call him Harry.

We adore him. Genetics are whacko, so he has this blond curly hair and blue eyes. His easy smile and endless giggles are the most striking thing about him. He loves to bang on this big drum that lives in his room. You also live in his room. The big painted mural of you perches high on a shelf, filling the room with your easy smile. You would love him.

It’s been four years since your ending, but you’ve inspired so many beginnings. You remain alive in everything I do, in every part of who I am. You’ve changed my life immeasurably, given me the courage and the strength to live the life I actually want to live. To be a person you would be proud of. Because of you, I am me.

Today, every muscle in my body aches from the impact of the crash, as your yahrzeit candle burns brightly on the counter.

I miss you.

I love you.

Your memory is a blessing.