In this issue, we explore the theme of Memory—how it comforts, surprises, and shapes us. You'll find stories that honor loved ones, reflections on how we carry the past with us, and thoughtful ideas for preserving and celebrating memories in everyday life. Whether through keepsakes, rituals, or simple moments of reflection, this issue offers space to cherish what matters most.
Volume № 2
Spring 2025
CANDLELIGHT M A G A Z I N E
THE MEMORY ISSUE
WITH WORK BY:
DIRECTOR: LAURA JAYE CRAMER MANAGING EDITOR: NOAH SANDERS ELIZABETH CAMPBELL JOEY CEDÉ EUGENE GOLOVESOV RON LACH SARAH LANE AYALA MARTIN ANNA NEKRASHEVICH
LAUREN PARKER MARESA SMITH PHYLLIS WAGNER RACHEL WRIGHT BURIED AT WORK
IN THIS ISSUE:
I Lost My 67 Day Streak on Duolingo When My Father Died - pg. 4 Snowdrops (And the Quiet Language of Hope) - pg. 11 How to Keep Talking: Rituals for Remembering - pg. 19 What To Do When Memories Feel Slippery - pg. 24 How the Five Senses Keep Memory Alive - pg. 31 How To Update Payable On Death (POD) Beneficiary Designations - pg. 38 The Brain’s Quiet Role in Holding On to the Ones We’ve Lost - pg. 41
I Lost My 67 Day Streak on Du BY LAUREN PARKER
The owl is rapping at me through the window of my phone screen. Three ignored alerts that I have to swipe past to get to the text messages that confirm the time we’re due at the funeral home.
The Duolingo mascot is a green owl with giant eager eyes that have shifted from cartoonish to desperation. An Instagram post on the official Duolingo account encourages people to donate to an aviary. It’s meant to be a symbol of wisdom, but for many cultures the owl means death. Pliny the
uolingo When My Father Died
Elder warned of the “funereal bird,” with “it’s cry not a musical note but a scream.” Now its music is the vibration in my pocket as we make list after list of everything we need to do before the burial.
In a symphony of songbirds, the owl is a soloist of omen. The Duolingo owl, Duo, is specifically a Spectacled Owl which is native to the tropical rainforests, its largest predator the oncoming car, and has a hoot like the rattling of a screen window before a storm.
There are no tropical rainforests in Central Michigan, just the birch and pine clusters that managed to dodge the timber industry. Half the forests are power lines and billboard posts. The reminder alerts begin at 6am because the app doesn’t understand my timezone. Or it does, which is a scarier thought. It’s dark still, in central Michigan, in the part of the state where the squirrels are thin but the crows are fat. Stephanie’s kicked you out of the top 25, log in to reclaim your spot! My family keeps asking what happened to me. Saying I disappeared. Repeating California in disbelief. My dad’s least favorite cousin says I look just like him. I let her cry on my shoulder, her eyeliner staining my collar bones. Gee, it sure would be a shame if you lost that streak now, wouldn’t it? It would be a crying shame and that’s why you should buy some lives. Like the one I am living right now where I have to fish the conspiracy pamphlets out of my father’s coffin before they close the lid. Die Eule. That’s how you say owl auf Deutsch and it will make sure that once a lesson you use it in a sentence. That’s good marketing, ya know. Generally it’s a sentence about how nice and smart it is, nett und klug . Die Eule liebt dich und ist klug und nett und it only takes four minutes. You have full hearts. All your hearts. They only break when you get something wrong. He was 62. The cancer took less than a year. I look at photos of an owl’s skeleton, eyeless sockets, featherly folded wings. It’s not like I expected; it doesn’t look wise or solemn but like death is alarming, a surprise. It’s been 3 days… I have let die Eule down. I’m not logging into my app. I am bulk deleting the emails and the Owl knows. My phone lights up at the Moose Lodge luncheon and someone asks hopefully if I have a boyfriend. How do you say grief auf Deutsch , Duo? How do you translate the turns of phrase that mark a state, a region, a family? What’s the translation of “ohhhhh we’ll be there in a couple three minutes” as a unit of time? Or “Jason’s likely to talk the quacker off a duck's ass”? Do other countries
“Gee, it sure would be a shame if you lost that streak now, wouldn’t it? It would be a crying shame and that’s why you should buy some lives.”
say “It takes a clear conscience to sleep in church?” How do you say “ain’t seen ya since God knows when” like God’s got the time to keep track of any of us anymore. Like he hasn’t given us up as a bad bet, like he isn’t sick of getting our little notifications, like he’s not bulk deleting our prayers. You’ll lose your streak if you don’t practice by midnight. Duo is disappointed in me. That rolls around in my head like a rock that I am trying to tumble into something smooth and shiny and inoffensive as a neighbor at my father’s wake tells me I smell like garlic. I adjust the medals on his military uniform. I take the flag of a country I’m mad at most of the time because the honor my father wanted is a burden I now have to store in my house. The fucking emojis. Your German skills are getting moldy with a round green face about to vomit. The Owl is sick. Sick at my choices. Sick at my limits. Disgusted, even. If it knows so much about what I’m capable of, why doesn’t it see how hard I’m trying?
“How do you say “quitter” in German?”
How do you say “quitter” in German? The final pressing email asks me and the answer is—I don’t know. It could be a simple aufgeben , give up. It could be Drückebergerin , shirker—slacker. Or even Feigling . Coward.
Duo doubts my bravery as I spend the solitary task of deciding which painfully attached belongings of my father are worth me bothering to keep. What I donate to someone else in the hopes they fall in love with my trash. What I throw away, hoping it dissolves in the Michigan landfill like we all will once in the ground. Sorry. That was harsh. START A LESSON. Like it knows me. Like we are friends. Like it is a father scolding me about grades or math homework or not graduating with honors. Like it's earned the right. Like I didn’t notice the circling raptors over the trees at the farm across the manmade lake. Like I can’t feel the air pressure drop like it wants to rain. Weiß die Eule, dass es enttäuschend ist? Does the owl know it’s disappointing? Does it know its little green notifications hit me when I find a letter from my mother about missing him while he was at war. Does it know that it vibrates when I find the VA notices in 1997 that says that already his battalion in the gulf was experiencing chronic fatigue, PTSD, headaches? Does it know I check my email when I don’t know how to read his letter to his father that says “I know I am not the son you wanted,” in handwriting I’ll never see again. Buy back your streak today! I’m folding the four hundred dollars cash we got from the truck, because thems was some good tires on it, into the donation envelope for Hospice of Michigan. You’ll never hear me talk bad about a Chevy. My dad drove it for 20 years and as one of his possessions that he broke, I know how hard he was on his things. Lights still come on and everything, hole in the floor but you could drive it off the lot, just be sure to read the signs that say BRIDGE ICES BEFORE ROAD. It’s not too late. Isn’t it, Duo? If anything were final, wouldn’t it be this? I was supposed to answer more prayers, solve more problems, be more of something he could understand. And now I’m making eye contact with a man’s entire life, with every piece of paper he kept.
Eule, kannst du mich helfen? You’re losing your place, Duo. Don’t lose your streak now…●
SNOWDROPS AND THE QUIET LANGUAGE OF HOPE
BY RACHEL WRIGHT WITH PHOTOGRAPHY BY JOEY CEDÉ
In the muted stillness of late winter, when the world seems suspended between frost and thaw, a small miracle unfolds: the snowdrop rises. Its delicate white petals, cradling hints of green like whispered secrets, pierce the frozen earth as if to prove that even the hardest ground can soften. To those grieving, this fragile bloom speaks a silent, profound truth — that life persists in the face of darkness, and that hope, however tender, is never truly extinguished.
S
nowdrops do not bloom in spite of winter; they are born of it. They emerge when the earth is still clenched in cold, their stems bowed not by sorrow, but by a quiet determination to meet the world as it is. For someone navigating loss, these flowers offer a metaphor far gentler than the clichéd “circle of life.” They do not shout about resilience; they simply embody it. In their unassuming way, they remind us that grief and hope are not opposites, but companions. One cradles the weight of what’s been lost; the other carries the promise of what remains. Consider how a snowdrop grows: its bulb spends months buried in darkness, gathering strength unseen. To the untrained eye, the soil seems barren. But beneath the surface, life is quietly, stubbornly rearranging itself. Isn’t this the rhythm of mourning? The work of healing happens in hidden places — in the quiet hours before dawn, in the ache of a memory, in the slow recalibration of a heart learning to beat anew. The snowdrop does not rush its becoming. Neither should we. Snowdrops are ephemeral. Their blooms fade quickly, a reminder that beauty and sorrow alike are fleeting. Yet their brevity is not a tragedy; it’s what makes them sacred. To witness a snowdrop is to practice presence — to kneel in the mud and frost and say, I see you. I honor this moment. In grief, we often fear forgetting. But the snowdrop teaches that impermanence does not diminish meaning; it deepens it. Each year, the flower returns not as a replacement for what was lost, but as a testament to what endures: love, memory, the indelible imprint of a life that mattered. There’s a reason these blooms are linked to Candlemas and Imbolc, ancient festivals of light and purification. They arrive as living candles, illuminating the path from winter’s desolation to spring’s renewal. For the bereaved, they mirror the slow, nonlinear journey toward hope. Some days, the light feels distant. Other days, it glimmers in the curve of a petal, the warmth of a shared story, or
the courage to face another morning.
To approach death with hope is not to bypass pain. It is to make room for paradox — to let the heart be a vessel for sorrow and solace at once. The snowdrop does this effortlessly. Even as it bows under the weight of a late snow, it cradles a green-and-white hymn to persistence. It asks nothing of us but to notice. Planting snowdrop bulbs can become an act of faith. Press them into the earth in autumn, when the world is letting go. Then wait. When they rise months later, their blooms will speak the language of return — not to what was, but to what is. They are a promise that endings and beginnings are braided together, that love outlives loss, and that even in the coldest seasons, life is quietly, fiercely reborn. Grief, like winter, changes us. It strips away the familiar, leaving us raw and exposed. Yet in that vulnerability, something shifts. We learn to see differently — to find solace in the way a flower can bend without breaking, or how light filters through a veil of ice. The snowdrop does not ask us to “move on.” It simply asks us to witness: to feel the ache of absence, and still, in time, feel the stir of possibility. For now, let the snowdrop be your companion. Let it remind you that endings are not absolute, that love is a thread woven into eternity, and that even the deepest cold will yield — not to a roar, but to the soft, insistent press of a single bloom.
May you find warmth in the remembering, and courage in the quiet. ●
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17
HOW TO KEEP TALKING (Rituals for Remembering)
BY AYALA MARTIN | DESIGN BY SARAH LANE
WHEN I THINK OF MY GRANDAD, I THINK OF THE QUIET HOURS JUST BEFORE DAWN.
He and I were the only ones awake, rising at 6 a.m. to make cinnamon-sugar toast and coffee, then settling in to watch the news and complain about the price of gas. It became our small ritual—a little routine that belonged just to us. I half-hated waking up that early, but something about those mornings made the loss of sleep feel like a small price to pay. Looking back, I realize those hours did more for me than I could have known at the time. They lifted me from the heaviness I was carrying, offering a break from the quiet sadness I struggled with as a teenager. I think he sensed it too, even if we never said it aloud. His way of helping wasn’t through big speeches but through showing up, every single morning, with toast, coffee, and companionship. But we both knew what was coming. One morning, as we watched the news, he gently told me his wishes— that his ashes be spread somewhere in his hometown in Montana, and that I not cry for him but instead celebrate his life. It was a simple request, but it stayed with me. When he passed, I kept my promise (well, one of them—the tears were inevitable).
And when I was done crying, I wrote. I filled pages with memories…the time he took me fishing even though girls usually weren’t “allowed,” the way he rolled up his sleeves just so, and, of course, our mornings together…
I miss him. How could I not? And when those early mornings come back to me, I smile — and I feel close to him again.
SPEAKING THEIR NAMES AND SHARING THEIR STORIES
Remembrance is often a communal act of storytelling. Friends and relatives swap tales about the departed not only at funerals, but around campfires, at family reunions, and during casual weeknight phone calls. Psychologists note that such narratives can be profoundly healing, offering comfort and a sense of continuity in the face of loss. Instead of “moving on” in silence, many are naturally continuing the conversation—telling stories as if their loved ones were still listening. Modern grief experts view this impulse as healthy. The old idea that one must achieve “closure” has given way to an understanding that we maintain bonds with those we’ve lost. Renewing a connection through memory— whether by narrating their jokes or reflecting on their life lessons—can actually help mourners cope. Storytelling keeps a person’s influence alive in the present day. It also reminds the bereaved that grief is an ongoing relationship, woven from equal parts sorrow and love.
NEW RITUALS OF REMEMBRANCE
Americans today are crafting personal, often informal traditions to remember those who’ve died. In a time when fewer people follow strict religious mourning customs, individuals are creating their own “syntax of grief”—a new language of mourning defined by personal meaning rather than formal ritual. For some families, this might mean lighting a candle and inviting everyone at a holiday gathering to share a favorite memory. In others, it means that each year on a loved one’s birthday, they prepare his signature chili and tell the story behind its secret spice blend one more time. These practices are rarely grand gestures; they are intimate, authentic, and often a little playful. They keep the departed person’s spirit integrated with daily life. Other remembrance practices feel equally organic. Some families maintain an empty chair at Thanksgiving or set aside a moment at reunions for everyone to share an anecdote about relatives who are gone. At funerals and “celebration of life” services, it’s now common to encourage open sharing—story after story echoing what the person meant to those gathered. Unlike somber, scripted funerals of the past, these modern memorials invite storytelling, laughter and the sharing of memories, focusing on a life well-lived rather than solely on loss. One funeral director in Pennsylvania notes that friends and family often come not just to mourn but to tell and listen, transforming the service into “a heartwarming tribute” filled with anecdotes, music, even the person’s favorite jokes. By spotlighting the positive memories and personal quirks of the departed, such gatherings help mourners feel more connected and “at home” with their grief. Young adults, too, are finding community through story. In dozens of cities, peer-led grief groups meet over potluck dinners to talk about those they’ve lost—a modern twist on communal mourning. The Dinner Party, a nonprofit network for bereaved 20- and 30-somethings, hosts intimate gatherings where each guest might bring a dish and a photo, and everyone has space to say their loved one’s name and share what they miss.
In these circles, personal anecdotes become a kind of currency, exchanged with empathy and understanding. Every story told—the silly, the profound, the unfinished—adds to the collective memory of someone who mattered.
LEGACIES WOVEN IN STORY AND TRADITION
There is nothing particularly new about honoring loved ones through storytelling; it is among the most ancient of human impulses. For as long as people have lived in families and tribes, we have passed down memories as oral history. Indigenous communities, for example, have long understood that speaking of ancestors unites past and present. This communal act has always been a way to keep those who came before with us, whether around a fire or at a kitchen table. In many cultures, there’s a saying that a person dies three times: when their body stops, when they are buried, and when their name is spoken for the last time. Storytelling, in essence, is how we refuse to let that last death occur.
THE GENTLE POWER OF REMEMBERING
Ultimately, all these practices—the bedtime stories about Dad, the grandchild named for Grandma, the recipe card stained with decades of use—speak to a fundamental truth: we remember because we have loved. Grief, in its own paradoxical way, is an expression of that love. When we repeat a story, we are saying this person mattered. We are lending them our voices so that their memory has somewhere to live. And in doing so, we find that they are not entirely lost to us. In the end, the art of remembering is an act of love and defiance. We refuse to let death have the final word. We keep telling the story. We speak their names. We pass on their jokes and recipes, their wisdom and even their mistakes, like treasured heirlooms. In these stories, those we have loved and lost remain part of the family, part of the community, part of the ongoing human tale. ●
What To Do When Memories Feel Slippery BY ELIZABETH CAMPBELL | PHOTOGRAPHY BY EUGENE GOLOVESOV
It can come softly at first.
remember.
A pause when trying to recall the sound of their laugh. A sudden uncertainty—were their eyes more green or blue? Or perhaps it arrives all at once, a wave of worry crashing against the quiet understanding that, despite your love and effort, some memories seem to fade. This is one of the quieter griefs: the fear of forgetting. We’ve met countless families who are terrified of losing the memory of their loved one—not just the big milestones, but the tiny details. And it’s important to know: this is normal. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love them enough, or that you aren’t trying hard enough to
Research supports this. A 2023 study published in Frontiers in Psychology found that grief can affect memory, especially autobiographical memory—our ability to recall specific events tied to personal experiences. The study noted that those experiencing prolonged grief often reported feeling as though memories were inaccessible or blurred, a phenomenon linked to the brain’s response to emotional overwhelm. So what can you do when memories feel slippery? How do you hold on without feeling like you’re chasing something you can’t catch?
UNDERSTAND THAT FORGETTING IS NOT FAILURE
be vivid. Others may soften, but their meaning remains.
The brain prioritizes survival. In times of acute grief, it’s not uncommon for our brain to go into a protective mode, shielding us from the full weight of emotion. Unfortunately, that means memories may feel harder to access. This knowledge can help ease the harsh self-judgment many feel. Memory is not a vault, perfectly preserving every detail. It is more like a garden—affected by seasons, weather, and time. Some memories will always
MAKE SPACE FOR GENTLE REMEMBRANCE
Rather than forcing yourself to remember, consider creating quiet, intentional spaces for memories to surface naturally. Memories are more likely to come when we aren’t trying to grab them too tightly. This could mean setting aside a few minutes to look through an old photo album, revisiting a favorite place, or simply sitting quietly with a cup of coffee, inviting
thoughts of your loved one to arise without expectation. Sensory cues—smells, music, and even specific textures—can spontaneously evoke vivid memories, often when least expected.
SHARE THEIR STORY
Talking about your loved one with others can help reinforce and revive memories. In fact, narrative practices—storytelling, letter writing, or even creating a small memory book—have been shown to help. Sharing stories with others helps us consolidate memory. It’s not just about remembering for ourselves, but helping others know them too. We’ve found that often bereaved individuals felt that sharing stories with others significantly helped them feel connected to their loved one’s memory. It wasn’t about getting every detail right; it was about capturing the essence of who they were.
USE THE TOOLS AROUND YOU
If you find yourself struggling, don’t hesitate to use tools to aid your memory. Voice recordings, written anecdotes, photos, and even social media posts can act as external memory holders. It’s okay to rely on reminders— and luckily we live in an age where we can capture and revisit memories more easily than ever before.
LET MEMORY BE WHAT IT IS
Ultimately, the work is not to perfectly preserve but to remain open. Memories may change shape, but their emotional truth can endure. Grief is not just about looking back. It’s also about continuing to love someone as they are now—in memory, in legacy, in how you live. It’s okay if some details soften with time. The love, the influence, the impact—they remain. And in the quiet, when you least expect it, you may find that a memory, once lost, floats gently back to you. ●
SENSING THEIR PRESENCE:
How the Five Senses Keep Memory Alive
By Elizabeth Campbell Photography by Maresa Smith
It was the familiar blend of everyday things — the soap she bathed with, the shampoo she used, the quiet trace of her antiperspirant. There was the delicate hold of her hairspray, the soft powder of her makeup, the comforting warmth of her body lotion. You might notice the faint scent of the detergent she always used on her clothes, or the hand soap she reached for throughout the day. And then, always, the fragrance she chose — sometimes one, sometimes layered — that clung softly to her skin. All of it together became hers. Even now, it is hers alone. No one else carries it, not exactly. It was more than a scent — it was her essence, mingling with the natural warmth of her skin to become something whole, something known only to those who loved her. HER SCENT WAS NEVER JUST PERFUME.
And when she was gone, it was that scent — that delicate, familiar, and unmistakable scent — that lingered. Caught in the folds of a sweater, in the quiet corners of a room, or drifting through the air unexpectedly. A reminder. A presence.
Even now, when it comes back to me, I stop. I breathe it in. And for a moment, she is there.
Grief has a way of sharpening the senses. A whiff of fresh bread in the morning can stop you in your tracks because it’s just like her recipe. The crackle of a needle on vinyl might transport you to lazy Sunday mornings with his music playing in the next room. Our five senses—sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch—are
deeply entwined with memory, and for those mourning a loss, they offer tangible portals to connect with the essence of those who are gone. Recent research bears out what mourners have long felt in their bones: sensory triggers are powerful in grief. A familiar sight, sound, scent, flavor, or texture can remind one of someone they are grieving. Far from being mere nostalgia, these experiences can evoke a surge of emotion, sometimes a comforting sense of connection and other times a wave of sadness. Yet, as painful as some triggers can be, they also affirm a fundamental truth: grief exists because love endures. People struggle to understand grief, but it is a byproduct of love, and the very sensations that now sting with loss were born from the bond you shared. In that light, sensing a loved one’s presence—however fleetingly—can become a quiet comfort, a way to keep their memory alive through the world around us. Each of the five senses can unexpectedly, and sometimes beautifully, help those in grief maintain a connection to those they have lost. Each sense offers its own form of remembrance, backed by both science and the shared cultural practices of mourning throughout history. In the gentle observations of everyday life—seeing a photograph, hearing a melody, catching a familiar scent, tasting a beloved recipe, or touching a worn piece of clothing—grievers often find that their loved ones are still with them , in memory and in heart.
Sight: Seeing to Remember
A faded photograph, a text message thread, an empty chair at the dinner table—such visuals can flood the mind with recollections. Sight is perhaps our most immediate sense, and in grief it often triggers the first pangs of memory. Seeing an old photograph is typically the most common trigger for a grieving memory, and we often keep these visual keepsakes close: framed portraits on a nightstand, home videos, or cherished objects that we associate with our loved one’s presence. Rather than “out of sight, out of mind,” keeping a loved one in sight —through memory corners or digital slideshows —can validate that your relationship endures beyond death. In fact, contemporary grief therapy often embraces “continuing bonds,” the idea that it’s healthy to maintain an ongoing inner relationship with the deceased. Visual mementos act as anchors for those bonds. They might make you cry, but they may also make you smile. A glimpse of your late partner’s handwriting in an old birthday card or the way the afternoon light falls on their favorite armchair can bring a “sense of connection” even in their absence. Over time, these sights become less about the shock of loss and more about quietly celebrating a life lived. In the words of one psychiatrist we spoke to, “physical reminders of the deceased can help you acknowledge a loss, as they provide a direct connection to your loved one .” By seeing, we remember, and through remembering, we keep a part of them present.
Sound: Echoes of Love and Loss
A familiar song drifts through a café, and suddenly your eyes well up. Sound is a potent conduit for memory and emotion. Music, in particular, has a unique way of engraving our life stories. Psychologists have found that music- evoked autobiographical memories are often deeply intertwined with our personal identity—think of a couple’s wedding song, or the lullaby a mother sang to her child. Years later, just a few notes of those melodies can collapse time, bringing the past rushing into the present.
It’s not just music; the simple sound of a voice can be even more profoundly missed. Many grieving people fear forgetting the sound of their loved one’s laughter or the timbre of their voice saying “I love you.” It’s common for widows and widowers to replay old voicemails or home videos for this very reason. “Oh, how I miss the sound of your voice,” goes the aching refrain shared by many. Our brains store sound memories in ways that can lie dormant until awakened by a cue. Hearing someone with a similar laugh in a restaurant or a stranger with a familiar accent can make your heart skip a beat. You know it’s not them, yet for an instant your brain reacts as if it could be. Therapists sometimes encourage using sound intentionally in mourning rituals. Creating a playlist of songs that remind you of your loved one, for example, can be a cathartic journey through shared memories. Some hospice centers hold “memory concerts” or suggest recording oneself reading a letter to the departed as a way to voice the unsaid. In literature and history, sound has often been linked with spiritual comfort—church bells that toll in remembrance, the Jewish tradition of reading names aloud on Yom HaShoah, or even the simple act of speaking to someone who has died as if they can hear you. These sonic practices acknowledge what science confirms: sound is deeply woven into memory. One recent study even found that music can evoke autobiographical memories as vividly as photographs, and sometimes with more emotional intensity. For the grieving heart, the echoes of a song or a voice offer proof that the love shared is not silence, but a melody that plays on.
“THEY OFFER TANGIBLE PORTALS TO
CONNECT WITH THE ESSENCE OF THOSE WHO ARE GONE.”
perfume or aftershave worn by the loved one is often cited as a top trigger for bereaved people.
And there’s a biological reason why scent is so powerful: unlike sights and sounds, which route through the brain’s thalamus, smells go straight to the olfactory bulb and then to the amygdala and hippocampus, the regions for emotion and memory. As Harvard neurobiologist Sandeep Datta explains, our olfactory system is uniquely tied into our brain’s emotional core as an evolutionary survival feature; as a result, “odor memories are so evocative.” In fact, researchers have found that odor-evoked memories tend to be more emotional and vivid than those triggered by other senses. A Brown University study in 2016 showed that smelling a familiar scent can produce heightened activity in the brain’s memory centers, almost like the brain “lights up” with recognition. What does this mean in the lived reality of grief? It means the scent of a loved one can feel like a fleeting reunion. It’s why a widow might keep her wife’s favorite
Smell: Scents of a Presence
Of all the senses, smell has a direct hotline to memory and emotion. A single inhale can transport us decades back in time. The scent of pine might bring a vivid Christmas morning to mind, or a trace of cigarette smoke might summon an image of a grandfather puffing on his evening pipe. For those in grief, these experiences are incredibly common. T he smell of a
scarf unwashed for months, breathing in the lingering perfume as a source of comfort. It’s why the smell of hospital disinfectant can bring a mourner to tears, as it recalls the painful last moments in a sterile ICU.
Grief counselors note that these “olfactory keepsakes” are a form of continuing bond. Some people even spray their loved one’s cologne in the house when they desperately want to feel close to them again. This can be grounding: Smell and emotion are stored as one memory.
Taste: A Flavor of Memory
Grief has a taste. Sometimes it’s the salt of tears, other times it’s the sweetness of a memory that washes over you when you eat something once shared. Our sense of taste is intricately linked with smell, and together they create flavor—a powerful trigger for recollection. Though taste might be the least commonly cited sense in formal grief studies, it can still unlock a trove of remembrance. Think of family recipes passed down through generations, and how cooking or eating those dishes can summon the presence of those who first shared them. “I decided to cook some of his favorite dishes… It was a sad-sweet time for me, but one full of memories of him,” wrote one of our community members about honoring her late father on his birthday. In the simple act of preparing his beloved meal, she found a “living” way to pay tribute, with each bite echoing his love and personality. The concept of “comfort food” takes on new meaning in grief. When we crave the chicken soup that Dad always made when we were sick, or the chocolate chip cookies that Grandma baked every holiday, it’s often because those flavors carry attachments to care, security, and love. A recent psychological study comparing music-evoked and food-evoked memories found that while both can be vivid, music memories tied more to identity, whereas food memories often brought warmth and specific family moments to mind. In other words, tasting a particular food might not make us reflect on our life’s path in the way a poignant song can, but it can instantly reconnect us to a certain place, time, and person—like being 10 years old in Grandma’s kitchen again, dunking a cookie in milk as she smiles. Marcel Proust famously described a madeleine cake dipped in tea that unlocked a flood of childhood memories; ever since, psychologists have used the term “Proustian memory” to describe how taste and smell can cue deeply buried recollections. In grief, these Proustian moments are bittersweet gifts. A sip of warm chamomile might bring back your late wife humming in the evening, or a spicy curry might remind you of that friend who taught you the recipe one summer night.
Touch: Holding On and Letting Go
A soft sweater once worn by your partner, a well-worn book with notes in the margins, the cool smoothness of your mother’s wedding ring now on your finger—touch is the most tangible of the senses, and in grief it can be profoundly consoling. After a loss, people often cling (sometimes literally) to what their loved one has left behind. Psychiatrists refer to these items as “linking objects,” the physical things that link us to someone who has died. It might be a piece of clothing, a tool, a favorite mug—anything infused with their presence. Holding these objects can spark memory through texture and weight, invoking what it felt like to hold them. For example, cuddling a teddy bear made from a late father’s flannel shirts can evoke the feeling of his embrace. Science supports the power of such tactile connections: a University of Iowa study found that touch can aid memory far more than sound, which may explain why handling a loved one’s belongings brings back vivid recollections.
The act of touch engages more of the brain’s sensory and emotional processing areas, reinforcing the memory that’s tied to the object.
In early grief, keeping a spouse’s side of the bed exactly as it was or wrapping up in their blanket at night is a common impulse. This is not weakness or denial; it’s an innate way of self-soothing. Our skin and nerves remember the comfort of our loved one’s physical presence—their hugs, the feel of their hand in ours—and anything that approximates that feeling can momentarily fill the void. Even years later, a widow might find calm in spinning her wedding band around her finger because it’s a touchstone (literally) to her years of marriage. Touch is also intertwined with ritual in mourning. Consider the simple but powerful gesture of holding hands with family at a funeral, or the act of friends embracing you in condolence—physical touch from others becomes a channel for shared grief and support. In other words, holding on (literally) eventually helps us to let go emotionally, bit by bit. The beloved item shifts from a lifeline in the storm of early grief to a cherished keepsake that evokes gentle nostalgia. Running your fingers over that old knit sweater might always bring a pang of longing, but it can also prompt gratitude for the love you shared. Through touch, we keep physical contact with memory itself. Every caress of an old photo album, every time we trace their handwriting on a recipe card, we affirm that those we love are never completely gone—their touch remains on our lives. ●
HOW TO UPDATE PAYABLE ON DEATH (POD) BENEFICIARY DESIGNATION A Practical Checklist by Buried at Work A Payable on Death (POD) beneficiary designation allows you to name a person who will automatically receive funds from your bank account upon your passing. POD designations take precedence over wills and help beneficiaries avoid probate, ensuring a faster and more efficient transfer of assets. Keeping your POD beneficiaries updated prevents delays, disputes, and unintended distributions.
Use this checklist to ensure your POD designations are accurate, up to date, and aligned with your overall estate plan.
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1. Review Your Existing POD Beneficiary Designations:
Fill Out the Form Accurately Request Confirmation
Ensure your current designations reflect your wishes and remove any outdated or incorrect beneficiaries.
5. Inform Your Beneficiaries: Keeping your beneficiaries informed prevents confusion later. Let Beneficiaries Know They Are Named 6. Periodically Review and Update as Needed: Life changes happen. Regularly reviewing POD designations ensures they remain accurate. (We suggest doing so annually on April 16th.) Set a Reminder to Review Annually Update if Your Beneficiary’s Situation Changes Ensure POD Aligns with Your Estate Plan
Check Your Bank Accounts Identify Current Beneficiaries Update for Life Changes
2. Gather Required Information: Updating a POD beneficiary requires key details about the new recipient. Full Legal Name of Beneficiary Date of Birth Social Security Number or Taxpayer ID (If Required) Contact Information 3. Contact Your Bank or Financial Institution: Each bank has its own process for updating POD designations. Identify the Proper Forms Verify if Notarization is Needed 4. Complete and Submit the POD Beneficiary Update: Follow the bank’s instructions carefully to ensure a smooth update Follow the bank’s instructions carefully to ensure a smooth update.
Image by Chris Abatzis
Access the full, printable checklist:
Buried in Work was established to simplify estate planning and end-of-life tasks, inspired by a personal experience, and driven by a mission to provide clarity and support during difficult times.
Their resources are designed for individuals, families, friends, service providers, and businesses looking for effective estate planning and end-of-life management solutions.
For an extended checklist—or to access what has been called “the most comprehensive end-of-life resource ever,” visit buriedinwork.com.●
THE BRAIN’S QUIET ROLE IN HOLDING ON TO THE ONES WE’VE LOST
by Phyllis Wagner with images by Ron Lach
ON
a quiet afternoon, you catch a familiar whiff of cologne and suddenly he’s there with you again—if only in memory. Your heart skips; for a split second, you could swear you heard his laugh in the next room. Moments like these feel surreal yet comforting. In grief, memory has a gentle way of bending time, allowing us to hold close those we’ve lost even as we know they’re gone. Modern neuroscience is beginning to illuminate how and why our brains cling to these precious remnants. By exploring emotional memory, how our minds store cherished moments, and the process of recalling someone we miss, we can better understand why remembering a loved one can hurt and heal all at once. In the past year alone, new studies have offered insight into this bittersweet process—helping to explain, in clear and human terms, the brain’s role in holding on to those we’ve lost.
The Emotional Power of Memory
Memory and emotion are intimately entwined. Think of the most vivid memories you have with your loved one —chances are, they carry a strong emotional charge. Neuroscience shows that when we experience something deeply emotional, our brain tags it as important, strengthening the memory. “Memory is not a single process happening in one part of the brain,” says Dr. Ann Monis, PsyD. “It is a network of functions involving multiple regions, each responsible for encoding, storing & retrieving information. During times of emotional distress, such as grief, these processes can be altered in ways that affect how memories are experienced & recalled.” In her work, Monis describes “encoding” as the first step in memory formation, where sensory input is processed & transformed into something the brain can store. “Grief is able to strengthen some memories while weakening others,” she explains. “Strong emotions like sadness, fear, and love can make emotionally charged memories more vivid. This is why certain moments from the past, such as a final conversation with a loved one, may become sharper and more intense.”
This finding challenges the old assumption that strong emotions make us forget details; in fact, emotion can enhance memory for the little things, imprinting the entire scene more firmly
Scientists have long known that the amygdala, an almond-shaped hub of emotion in the brain, activates during emotional experiences and effectively tells the hippocampus (our memory center) “keep this one.” That’s one reason a joyful birthday party or the painful day of a funeral embeds itself so strongly in our long-term memory. Emotion enhances memory—it provides an energetic charge that the brain can capitalize on, to remember better. It’s a mechanism that likely served us in evolution (remembering dangers or rewards), but in grief it means our moments with a loved one—the laughter, the tears, the goodbyes—are stored with extra clarity and weight. This emotional amplification of memory can be a double-edged sword. When we lose someone, every memory of them is laden with feeling. A simple image of them smiling can trigger a cascade of emotion that makes it feel as though the event is happening now. And in a sense, the brain is indeed re-living it. Neuroscientists describe memory retrieval as reactivating the original pattern of brain activity from the experience itself. Remembering is literally a miniature reunion: At the neuronal level, remembering involves the retrieval of a past brain state into a present brain state. The same networks of neurons that fired when you and your mother baked pies years ago may fire again when the scent of cinnamon suddenly brings that moment flooding back. No wonder a vivid memory can bring tears or warmth to our eyes—for a moment, the brain makes it feel real once more. Importantly, not all memory triggers are visual or verbal. Our senses can ambush us with memories. Smell, especially, is known for unlocking emotional memories with peculiar power. A whiff of her perfume or the earthy smell of his tobacco can unleash a rush of recollection. Research confirms that odor-evoked memories tend to be more emotional and detailed than memories prompted by other cues
That’s because the brain’s olfactory pathways plug directly into emotion and memory circuits. A simple scent
bypasses the rational brain and hits the heart—suddenly you’re back in that moment, feeling what you felt then. These intense flashbacks can be jarring, but they’re a sign of just how devoted our brain is to preserving the essence of those we love. Turning Moments into Lasting Memories How do fleeting experiences crystallize into the long-term memories that stay with us for years or decades? The answer lies in a process neuroscientists call consolidation—and it’s one of the brain’s quiet miracles. Every meaningful interaction with a loved one—every holiday dinner, every hospital bedside conversation—sparks
neural activity in the hippocampus. In the hours and days afterward, the brain works on “saving” that experience, gradually transferring it from short-term storage into a more durable form. This involves strengthening connections between neurons and even rewiring which brain regions store various bits of the memory. Over time, a memory that was once fragile becomes ingrained, woven into the very structure of the brain. Sleep is a crucial partner in this process. During sleep, and even during restful waking moments, the brain replays the day’s experiences in subtle ways, helping to file them into long-term memory. Recent research has highlighted an especially poignant aspect of this system: when the experiences carry heavy emotion, the brain seems to give them priority processing at night. According to a recent study conducted by UC Irvine, people who report dreaming show greater emotional memory processing, suggesting that dreams help us work through our emotional experiences.In that same study of sleep and memory, the team found that dreaming after something painful or traumatic was associated with feeling a bit better the next day. During dreaming sleep, the brain appears to prioritize the emotional memories—replaying them, but also gradually taking the edge off their intensity by morning. It’s as if our sleeping mind gently holds each difficult memory, examines it, and says, “This is important, but let’s soften the pain just a little.” Many people grieving a loss find that in the first weeks they dream frequently of their loved one— conversations, appearances, even arguments. These dreams can be startling or bittersweet, but they may be one way the brain consolidates the reality of the loss while preserving the emotional bond. As the nights pass, the brain is stitching a new quilt of memory: one that keeps our loved one present in our mind, yet gradually lowers the volume on the trauma of their absence. Memory consolidation isn’t just a passive filing system; it can be an active practice too. Every time we recall a memory, we essentially reinforce it. Reviving a memory opens it up to a brief period of reconsolidating—a window in which the memory can grow stronger (or sometimes change slightly) before being stored away again. Studies have shown that reactivating memories makes them last longer and resist interference. In everyday terms: telling and retelling the story of how you met your late husband might actually help ensure that memory stays vivid and intact over the years. Our brains are built to hold on to what matters, and one way they do that is by encouraging us to revisit those important memories. This is why sharing stories about a loved one, looking at their photographs, or even quietly reflecting on them can be so powerful. We are, in a sense, practicing remembrance—and practice makes permanent. Of course, memory can also evolve. Over time, as the loss settles in, some of the sharper pain of early recollections may begin to dull. This isn’t forgetting; it’s a sign that the memory has moved to a safer place in our mind. Our brains maintain an internal “map” of our loved ones—a map built from years of neural associations and predictions. When someone we love is alive, this map helps us predict their presence in our lives (we expect to hear their voice, to see them come home at 6 p.m.). After they die, the map doesn’t instantly erase; instead, it generates conflicting signals: one part of the brain registers “I know they’re gone,” but another very deep part keeps whispering “Maybe they’ll walk through the door.” This is why newly bereaved people
often experience moments of confusion or disbelief—the brain is wrestling with its own wiring.
It takes time and repetition for the brain to update that internal model. In a real sense, grief is a form of learning—learning that a beloved is no longer here in the flesh, even as we solidify new ways of feeling their presence. This adaptation is the brain slowly coming to predict their absence rather than expecting their presence. Through this lens, every remembered conversation and every silent realization is the brain’s way of adjusting the maps of love etched in our neurons.
When We Remember, We Reunite
In the thick of grief, memory retrieval can be both a comfort and a source of pain. A sudden recollection might swell your heart or just as easily drop you to your knees. What’s happening in those moments? As we’ve seen, calling up a memory reactivates the neural patterns of the original experience—it’s as if a part of the brain doesn’t distinguish between past and present. Longing for someone can even engage the brain’s reward circuitry, the same pathways that light up when we reunite with someone we love. In early grief, thinking of our loved one may flood us with longing—the neurological equivalent of reaching out and finding no hand to hold. This can be profoundly painful: psychologists sometimes label it “unrequited yearning.” But with time, as those memory circuits get exercised and our brain slowly accepts that reunion can only happen in memory, the pain of yearning gradually softens. We never forget the person—far from it—but remembering them eventually becomes less about urgent craving and more about bittersweet comfort. That’s the brain’s doing: not a sign that our love has faded, but a sign of a healthy adjustment.
Our brains, in their wisdom, protect us by slowly transforming searing grief into a gentler form of remembrance.
Knowing the science behind memory and grief can offer gentle reassurance. It tells us that feeling stuck in memories, or being ambushed by them, is not a sign of “going crazy” or failing to move on—it’s our brain doing exactly what it was designed to do: remembering our loved one. Over time, the persistent tug of those memories usually lessens; we integrate the loss into our life story. But we carry forward an inner version of the person—composed of remembered moments, lessons they taught us, their voice, their touch. This isn’t living in the past; it’s love made neurologically real. ●
www.imemories.com
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