In the wake of my daughter June's passing from neuroblastoma, I found myself seated in a plastic chair on our stone patio, tucked away in a quiet corner of our yard facing the woods. It was springtime in Maine, and aside from the occasional chirp of birds or the distant sound of cars, the air was still.

The memories I held were devoid of the most significant people in my life—my daughter, just three years old, and my husband, who was likely at work. June was gone, and the only presence I could truly account for was my son, who would constantly kick and press against my ribs, a reminder of the life still within me.

In my solitude, I sat in despair, observing the tranquil trees awakening from winter, yearning for some sign of life or connection. I had once come across the idea that humans and trees share a reciprocal relationship—each admires the other. I longed for the trees to acknowledge my existence, hoping their energy might mend the wounds I felt so deeply.

Before June's death, I had seldom given thought to the trees around me.

With both feet firmly planted on the ground, I watched for a glimpse of a cardinal, as its brief appearance would signify that I was meant to carry on. Just a flash of red could sustain me through the hours, reminding me that June was still with me, watching and waiting. It encouraged me to keep talking to her, even in her absence, and to not let my despair cloud my vision of what truly mattered.

I strained my eyes searching for that hopeful red until they burned and ached.

The cardinal served as a reminder that I remained June's mother. In some infinite dimension, she needed me to be strong—for her older sister and younger brother, both of whom relied on me. I held on to the belief that June needed my strength, even from afar.

I envisioned the veil separating life from death as a delicate sheet of glass. Though it may seem opaque to some, once you cross to the other side, everything is visible in an eternal present. There is no past or future; everything coexists, yet you cannot return to what once was. Perhaps June and I shared a moment on that patio, each in our respective realities. The thought would bring me solace, a reminder that my sorrow could inflict pain upon her. Life and death were separated by a thin layer, almost fragile.

There is no greater pull than that of being needed by your children, whether they are physically present or not.

When June was alive, I made a promise to her that I would never leave her side. Such promises often feel instinctual, buried deep within. I vowed to June, even as we sat together on a hospital gurney, that nothing would sever our bond. I knew death was inevitable, but I thought we could address that later—much later.

However, forever wasn't the endless span I had imagined as a child. During June's battle with cancer, forever shrank to a mere eighteen months—the very age at which she passed. It dwindled from months to weeks, and ultimately to days, culminating in the final minute of her life.

Forever proved to be transient, confined by time. Yet while both June and I lived, I held on to the truth that I would never abandon her.

These promises, though never explicitly stated, became my guiding principles. As long as this life isn't the sole one we possess, I intend to uphold them.

In my uncomfortable body and amidst a world that felt equally challenging, I experienced a deafening silence. I found myself teetering between life and death.

It was then I grabbed my Bluetooth speaker and began to scroll through my music. I instinctively knew where I needed to go. I played songs that had nothing to do with my sorrow but everything to do with my grief.

Scarface, Q-Tip, T.I., and Jurassic 5 filled the air with their explicit lyrics, while the sounds of Common and Nelly Furtado wafted through the spring breeze. One song, "Right On" by The Roots, became my anthem, played over fifty times in a month after June's death. Chingy would occasionally pop up, providing an unexpected comfort. It seemed unlikely that Chingy could soothe me, yet there I was—immersed in his beats, alongside the trees and the elusive cardinal.

As I floated through the music, I found myself revisiting my high school days—a concept that might unsettle many, but for me, it sparkled with nostalgia. I relived conversations, flirtations, and moments with old teachers, trying to recall names and faces.

What I now refer to as my "high school phase of grief" allowed me to escape the emptiness, even if just for a day or until bedtime.

All the while, I awaited the cardinal's arrival. I would cry in its absence and weep in joy upon its appearance.

There were days when rain fell, and I chose to sit in it without an umbrella. The chilly March and April days reminded me that I was still alive, that I could still feel.

Nerves became a prevalent topic after June's diagnosis, as cancer invaded her nerve cells, causing her immense suffering. Terms like "on my last nerve" or "calming the nervous system" now felt like a heavy veil.

These days, the mention of nerves sends me spiraling.

Through music, I reconnected with a life that had slipped away without my notice.

I craved to return to a time before marriage and children—a time filled with the small heartbreaks of friendships ending, a time before June, and most importantly, a time before her existence ceased.

It was at the woodline that I began dialing the numbers of old friends to check in.

"You have a knack for bringing people together," a friend once told me. "You're the glue." It felt like a burden then, but now it feels like a precious gift, one I cannot squander in this fleeting life.

"La vida es tan larga, Taryn," my Chilean sister Isabel reminded me when I lamented how short life felt. Life is long. "There’s so much more living and loving to experience. So many layers to uncover."

Her words provided a refreshing perspective, one I believe all grieving parents need to hear as they teeter on the edge of their child's death.

One day, I woke up, and the allure of reliving my teenage years faded. It became an afterthought, yet the nostalgia following June's loss lingered.

I often pondered whether other mothers experienced time travel after losing their children.

Two years after June's passing, I received an email about my 20th high school reunion.

I eagerly RSVP'd.

On the reunion night, a friend and I arrived at the familiar clubhouse, where countless junior high dances had been held. It had remained unchanged for nearly three decades.

I donned embellished shoes that sparkled in the setting sun as we walked toward the entrance.

Inside, the room was sparsely decorated, with plastic tablecloths covering a few tables. No DJ could be found, and the anticipated waitstaff was absent. A blank screen hung at the front, reminiscent of the one where I had presented my senior project. Despite its simplicity, it felt promising. In the corner, a laptop played early 2000s hits through a large speaker, and a cash bar awaited in the back.

"We just took shots in the car," an old friend said as we gathered around a table to write our names on tags.

Groups of people mingled in the warm afternoon light. I moved from one familiar face to another, embracing friends I hadn't seen in two decades.

The lights remained bright, we never danced, and there were no superlatives or slideshows.

Yet, the event's atmosphere made up for its lack of traditional elements. Hardly anyone sat down, and the three hours flew by, filled with hugs, laughter, and tears shared with faces from my past.

If nostalgia had an enemy, it would be the clock marking the end of an event. I bid farewell to faces I might not see again for a long time.

For a brief moment, I was enveloped by my high school friends. I showed up as my true self, revealing everything I had become over the years. I am the sum of life's losses, yet I didn’t arrive feeling empty. I felt whole as I spoke of June. When people inquired about my work, I shared that I write about her and the experience of losing a child to cancer. I write for mothers like me, who feel isolated in their grief, seeking a story or proof that someone else endured the trials of childhood cancer and survived.

Several old friends mentioned they followed my blog about June, expressing how it helped them cope with their own losses. In that moment, I could see and feel their grief. For a brief instant, our shared losses intertwined, and we weren't alone.

For three hours, past and present coexisted.

For one night, I journeyed through time.

Afterward, we returned to a friend’s house, gathering around a round table to reminisce about the evening. As we analyzed every moment and counted who was absent, we recalled our first meeting twenty-six years prior.

"I remember the first time I met you," a friend said.

In that moment, I understood I wasn't the only one experiencing time travel.

The grief I carried for June after her passing transported me back to high school, likely saving my life. At the time, the significance eluded me, but post-reunion, clarity emerged.

Grief and nostalgia are intricately intertwined. Grief encompasses more than just monumental losses, like losing June. It reflects the series of losses we endure throughout life. Transitions, such as entering adulthood, are laden with grief. Nostalgia serves as the magical dust that can momentarily lift us from our sorrow.

We all carry a bit of that dust within us.

Can it be called time travel if it feels as though you've never left?

That’s how June feels.

That’s how it felt to be with my friends on the night of our 20th high school reunion.