Over the Memorial Day holiday weekend, we published The Grief Project, a series of interviews with artists who discussed the ways that loss affected their work and creativity. We also asked readers about the art and culture — whether it was a book, a movie, a song or anything else — that helped them remember or cope with losing a loved one. Hundreds responded. Here is what some of them said.
Music
‘As’ by Stevie Wonder
I’m not sure if it’s the melody or lyrics, but this song deeply captures the deep feelings of love and profound grief that I feel for the loss of my mother. Throughout the song Stevie Wonder professes all the ways and lengths that the depth of his love reaches. He notes “did you know true love asks for nothing / her acceptance is the way we pay.” I often am reminded of this. The grief that I carry is a tax on the lifetime of unconditional love I’ve experienced from my mother. Like Stevie, she was soulful and full of spirit, enriching the lives of all she came in contact with. We couldn’t have the proper celebration we wanted for her because of Covid, but I imagine if we did, we would have played this song along with so many more of her favorites and danced all night. I can’t hear the song anymore without feeling a deep sense of longing for her. I’m so grateful for her life and legacy, and I miss her terribly. —Nancy Hanks, Atlanta
Film
‘School of Rock’
It was less than a week after we lost our 4-year-old daughter Laila to cancer, in 2004. A neighboring couple, who had been supportive throughout Laila’s illness, brought over a VHS tape of “School of Rock.” In those very early days of bereavement, as far as I knew, I would never laugh again. But we popped in the videocassette, and before long I found myself laughing out loud, along with the family and friends gathered with us. Although my sadness filled my entire soul, there was somehow still room for humor. The wondrous physics of hope, in a lesson delivered by Jack Black with his electric guitar. As a family, we rewatch “School of Rock” every now and then, and it never fails to uplift. To me, it will always be a symbol of resilience. —Mary Janevic, Ann Arbor, Mich.
Our sister died in December after an incredibly brief illness. She was our go-to person for all things hockey, especially our beloved Rangers. Watching them skate so beautifully this season offered tremendous comfort to my family. Whether they win or lose, we often text each other, “Joanie would have loved this.” It really helps. —Pam Poling, Fairfield, Conn.
Music
‘Time of the Cottonwood Trees’ by Charley Crockett
My wife, Ginny, died last year of cancer. We had been married 39 years. Music was a critical part of my life, but after she died, the music stopped. I couldn’t listen to anything. Then I happened across a video of Charley Crockett performing live at the Ryman [in Nashville]. I listened to that album on repeat for weeks. Something about it brought me peace. This song in particular. “She drove a blue pickup truck / She loved it, though it really wasn’t much / Kinda like the way she loved me / In the time of the cottonwood trees.” —George Schmahl, Galveston, Texas
Magazines
National Geographic
Every evening in bed my husband, Michael, read Nat Geo. “Look at this,” he would say, passing the magazine to me so I could thrill to the images he was struck by. Then I would go back to reading a novel or memoir or poetry. I was more invested in stories written without distracting photos of solar eclipses or elephants on the savanna. Michael died three months ago at the age of 65, just as he was about to retire. We were married for 40 years. I have not canceled the Nat Geo subscription. They arrive in the mail, his name on the sticker, and I place them on his night stand where I can watch the stack growing like sunflowers. It is a comfort to see them. Yet I am not quite ready to open them. But I will. And I hope to marvel at the articles and photographs just as Michael did. Dreaming of the faraway places he wished he could visit but never had the chance. Perhaps I’ll go on one of the wild adventures he always wanted to experience. Perhaps he will really be with me. —Claudia Sternbach, Santa Cruz, Calif.
My husband was a prolific academic and musician, and the most tender gentleman. He and I got married at Graceland during the pandemic, in 2020. One of the wedding gifts I gave him was a tiny music box of Elvis tunes. Just over a year later, he died by suicide. While he was in the hospital, and I was pleading that he wake up, I would play this music box for him. To this day, when I hear “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” my heart returns to all of the joy and sorrow wrapped into the short time I had with my beautiful husband, all underwritten in the soulful wailing of Elvis Presley. —Kristin A. Coryn, Kalamazoo, Mich.
Books
David Sedaris
I slept with his books. After the loss of my mom and dad, a few years apart, his books were always there for me. A couple of years later, I patiently waited to be the first in line at a book signing to thank him and let him know his books were the sun in my darkest hours. —Amy Partington, Pensacola, Fla.
Podcasts
‘All There Is’ With Anderson Cooper
Anderson Cooper’s podcast about grief was all I could listen to in the early days after losing my 24-year-old daughter. I’d walk, cry and listen to him and his guests (the Stephen Colbert episode a particular favorite) as I tried to process what just happened. —Lori Piccolo, Chevy Chase, Md.
Film
‘Moana’
I watched “Moana” both in 2020 when my brother died from a heroin overdose and in 2022 when my mother died from a brain aneurysm. The familiarity of the narrative and songs gave me a moment to breathe and feel connected to the innocuous energy that childhood-like experiences deliver to us. I think because I had watched “Moana” after my brother’s death, it became its own unplanned tradition as soon as I found myself grappling with another unbearable grief only two years later. It gave me a process I could grasp onto that didn’t involve unpredictable terrain. —Christopher Zivalich, Denver
Music
‘The Best Day’ by Taylor Swift
I know the song is about her mom, but as she sang, I was transported to memories on how present my dad was in my life. He was my best friend. I miss him to this day. —Therese Pang, Sacramento, Calif.
I grew up with my mother talking about Paris and how she dreamed of one day going. One of my earliest introductions to art and the Impressionists was when I was 7 or 8 and she read me a book called “Linnea in Monet’s Garden.” In it were his “Water Lilies” paintings and the story behind them, and from then on we dreamed of going to Paris together and seeing them. She passed away two years ago without ever getting to visit Paris or see Monet’s “Water Lilies,” but days after what would have been her 70th birthday, I found myself standing in his garden watching the water lilies ripple gently in the pond he so lovingly and carefully painted. And as I stood there in the late autumn sunshine, not ever wanting to leave, I thought of my mother’s gentle voice reading to me from the book — “It is far, but it is not impossible.” —Jessica Potter, Portland, Ore.
Music
‘Country Road’ by John Denver
We lost our magnetic, beautiful, 16-year-old son Hayden in May of 2022. The one song he sang aloud with me was, unexpectedly, “Country Road.” I had picked him up from a school outing spring of his 8th grade year. I sprung him out early so he could go play ice hockey. He was happy and felt free. The sun was coming down, he was leaned back in the passenger seat, and he put the song on and sang with utter abandon. I joined him. His head was back, and he was not ashamed to love the song. I tried to get him to sing it again to hear his voice, which surprised me in its beauty. But it was done — he moved on to rap. Two years since he passed, at least once a week I play that song now on high volume and sing while driving, even if it means I don’t get off at my exit! I put my open hand to the passenger’s side to feel him. And I do. It sounds sad, but it is joyful and sorrowful. It can be this and that. —Sarah Thompson, Darien, Conn.
Music
‘Sweet Caroline’ by Neil Diamond
Mom died on New Year’s Eve 2020. Covid kept thwarting her life celebration, and it didn’t happen until May ’23 — which was perfect, really. The utter surprise of grief was gone, replaced with the joy of people gathering. Her fave song was “Sweet Caroline,” so we hired a trumpeter to play that iconic intro for us, and the whole church sang along and pumped their arms into the air at the refrain. “So good, so good, so good.” It transformed it into a party, my mom’s favorite activity, and she would have loved it. —Paul Mougey, Chicago
Film
‘Cabaret’
My best friend Roy died of AIDS in 1985. He was 29. We always thought we’d grow old together. It was a devastating loss, and I still think of him nearly every day with pure love. He adored “Cabaret,” and I watch it once a year in his memory. We saw the film together, as we were starting our adult lives in New York in the 1970s, at the Elgin Theater, now the Joyce. After a movie at the Elgin, we always ate pernil at Mi Chinita Linda, a Chinese/Cuban place in an old silver diner across the street. —Kim Barget, Delray Beach, Fla.
Music
Josh Groban
I discovered Josh at the very beginning of his career. I was raising my teenage adopted sons who both had behavioral issues and learning disabilities. His voice touched my soul and sustained me through very difficult times. My oldest son struggled with depression and addiction. He died in 2017 at the age of 36. He was the same age as Josh and would jokingly say “Josh is mom’s good son.” Josh wrote a song, “River,” right around the time my son passed. He has shared his struggles with depression in interviews. I wish I could let him know how much that song helped me with my heartbreak and grief. He sang that song at a concert I attended, and I wasn’t the only person in the audience crying. —Marion Evans, Beacon Falls, Conn.
Shivani Gonzalez contributed reporting.
Read More: Monet, Taylor Swift, ‘Moana’: What Got Readers Through Their Grief
